LIBRARY^ 

UNIVERSITY  OP 
CALIFORNIA 

.       SAN  oieeo       I 


15S03 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


/GILBERT  NORWOOD,   M.A 

^    .   ...  •'  "" 

FORMERLY    FELLOW   OF    ST.    JOHN'S   COLLEGE,   CAMBRIDGE 
PROFESSOR   OF   GREEK   IN    THE    UNIVERSITY   COLLEGE,   CARDIFF 


JOHN  W.  LUCE  &  GO. 
BOSTON 

MGMXX 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  is  an  attempt  to  cover  the  whole  field 
of  Greek  Tragedy.  My  purpose  throughout 
has  been  twofold.  Firstly,  I  have  sought  to 
provide  classical  students  with  definite  facts  and  with 
help  towards  a  personal  appreciation  of  the  plays  they 
read.  My  other  intention  has  been  to  interest  and  in 
some  degree  to  satisfy  those  "general  readers"  who 
have  little  or  no  knowledge  of  Greek.  This  second 
function  is  to-day  at  least  as  important  as  the  first. 
Apart  from  the  admirable  progress  shown  in  Europe 
and  the  English-speaking  world  by  many  works  of  first- 
rate  Greek  scholarship,  in  the  forefront  of  which  stand 
J ebb's  monumental  Sophocles,  Verrall's  achievements 
in  dramatic  criticism,  and  the  unrivalled  Einleitung  of 
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, — the  magnificent  verse-trans- 
lations of  Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  springing  from  a 
rare  union  of  poetic  genius  with  consummate  scholarship, 
have  introduced  in  this  country  a  new  epoch  of  interest 
in  Greek  drama  among  many  thousands  who  are  un- 
acquainted with  the  language.  Even  more  momentous  is 
the  fact  that  the  feeling  of  educated  people  about  drama 
in  general  has  been  revolutionized  and  reanimated  by  the 
creative  genius  of  Ibsen,  whose  penetrating  influence  is 
the  chief  cause  of  the  present  dramatic  renaissance  in 
Great  Britain. 

Two  important  topics  have  been  given  more  pro- 
minence than  is  usual  in  books  of  this  kind  :  dramatic 
structure  and  the  scansion  of  lyrics. 


vi  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

It  might  have  been  supposed  self-evident  that  the 
former  of  these  is  a  vital  part,  indeed  the  foundation,  of 
the  subject,  but  it  has  suffered  remarkable  neglect  or  still 
more  remarkable  superficiality  of  treatment :  criticism  of 
the  Greek  tragedians  has  been  vitiated  time  and  again 
by  a  tendency  to  ignore  the  very  existence  of  dramatic 
form.  It  is  a  strange  reflection  that  the  world  of  scholar- 
ship waited  till  1887  for  the  mere  revelation  of  grave 
difficulties  in  the  plot  of  the  Agamemnon.  Examining 
boards  still  prescribe  "  Ajax  vv.  1-865,"  on  tne  naive 
assumption  that  they  know  better  than  Sophocles 
where  the  play  ought  to  end.  Euripides  has  been 
discussed  with  a  perversity  which  one  would  scarcely 
surpass  if  one  applied  to  Anatole  France  the  standards 
appropriate  to  Clarendon.  Throughout  I  have  at- 
tempted to  follow  the  working  of  each  playwright's 
mind,  to  realize  what  he  meant  his  work  to  "  feel  like  ". 
This  includes  much  besides  structure,  but  the  plot  is 
still,  as  in  Aristotle's  day,  "the  soul  of  the  drama". 

Chapter  VI,  on  metre  and  rhythm,  will,  I  hope, 
be  found  useful.  Greek  lyrics  are  so  difficult  that 
most  students  treat  them  as  prose.  I  have  done  my 
best  to  be  accurate,  clear,  and  simple,  with  the  purpose 
of  enabling  the  sixth-form  boy  or  undergraduate  to 
read  his  "chorus"  with  a  sense  of  metrical  and  rhythmi- 
cal form.  With  regard  to  this  chapter,  even  more 
than  the  others,  I  shall  welcome  criticism  and  advice* 

I  have  to  thank  my  wife  for  much  help,  and  my 
friend  Mr.  Cyril  Brett,  M.A.,  who  kindly  offered  to 
make  the  Index. 

GILBERT  NORWOOD 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY       .        .  i 

II.  THE  GREEK  THEATRE  AND  THE  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS  49 

III.  THE  WORKS  OF  ^ESCHYLUS  ......  84 

IV.  THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES 132 

V.  THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  .         .         .         .        ...        .186 

VI.  METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY   .        .        »  327 

INDEX 365 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

ALL  the  types  of  dramatic  poetry  known  in 
Greece,  tragic,  satyric,  and  comic,  originated 
in  the  worship  of  Dionysus,  the  deity  of  wild 
vegetation,  fruits,  and  especially  the  vine.  In  his 
honour,  at  the  opening  of  spring,  were  performed 
dithyrambs,  hymns  rendered  by  a  chorus,  who,  dressed 
like  satyrs,  the  legendary  followers  of  Dionysus,  pre- 
sented by  song  and  mimic  dance  stories  from  the 
adventurous  life  of  the  god  while  on  earth.  It  is  from 
these  dithyrambs  that  tragedy  and  satyric  drama  both 
sprang.  The  celebrated  Arion,  who  raised  the  dithyramb 
to  a  splendid  art-form,  did  much1  incidentally  to  aid 
this  development.  His  main  achievement  in  this  regard 
is  the  insertion  of  spoken  lines  in  the  course  of  the 
lyrical  performance ;  it  seems,  further,  that  these  verses 
consisted  of  a  dialogue  between  the  chorus  and  the 
chorus-leader,  who  mounted  upon  the  sacrificial  table. 
Such  interludes,  no  doubt,  referred  to  incidents  in  the 
sacred  story,  and  the  early  name  for  an  actor  (virot<p  1x175, 
"one  who  answers")  suggests  that  members  of  the 
chorus  asked  their  leader  to  explain  features  in  the 
ritual  or  the  narrative. 

At  this  point   drama  begins  to  diverge   from  the 
dithyramb.     With  comedy  we  are  not  here  concerned.2 

1  See  Haigh,  The  Tragic  Drama  of  the  Greeks,  pp.  19  sq. 

2  It  arose  in  a  similar  fashion  to  tragedy,  from  the  phallic  songs  to 
Dionysus  at  his  winter  festival. 


2  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

The  drama  of  the  spring  festival  may  be  called  "  tragedy," 
but  it  was  in  a  quite  rudimentary  state.  Its  lyrics,  sung 
by  fifty  "satyrs,"  would  altogether  outshine  in  im- 
portance the  dialogue-interludes  between  chorus-leader 
and  individual  singers ;  the  theme,  moreover,  would  be 
always  some  event  connected  with  Dionysus.  Two 
great  changes  were  necessary  before  drama  could  enter 
on  free  development :  the  use  of  impersonation  in  the 
interludes  and  the  admission  of  any  subject  at  will  of 
the  poet.  The  first  was  introduced  by  Thespis,  who  is 
said  to  have  "  invented  one  actor  ".  The  second  was 
perhaps  later,  but  at  least  as  early  as  Phrynichus  we 
find  plays  on  subjects  taken  from  other  than  Dionysiac 
legends.  It  is  said  that  the  audience  complained  of  this 
innovation  :  "  What  has  this  to  do  with  Dionysus?  "  1 

Another  great  development  is  attributed  to  Pratinas 
— the  invention  of  satyric  drama.  The  more  stately, 
graver  features  and  the  frolicsome,  often  gross,  elements 
being  separated,  the  way  was  clear  for  the  free  develop- 
ment of  tragedy  and  satyric  into  the  forms  we  know. 
But  satyric  work,  though  always  showing  playful  charac- 
teristics and  a  touch  of  obscenity,  was  never  confounded 
with  comedy.  Stately  figures  of  legend  or  theology 
regularly  appeared  in  it  —  Odysseus  in  the  Cyclops, 
Apollo  in  the  Ichneutce — and  it  was  a  regular  feature  at 
the  presentations  of  tragedy  ;  each  tragic  poet  competed 
with  three  tragedies  followed  by  one  satyric  play.  When 
the  latter  form  changed  its  tone  slightly,  as  in  the  work  of 
the  Alexandrian  Pleiad,2  it  approximated  not  to  comedy 
but  to  satire.3 

1  ri  ravra  irpos  TOV  Atdrvtrov  ;  (Plutarch,  Symposiaca,  615  A). 

» Pp.  39-41- 

3  These  first  paragraphs  give  a  summary  of  the  view  almost  universally 
held  as  to  the  origin  of  Greek  tragedy.  Of  late,  however,  Professor  Sir 
William  Ridgeway  (The  Origin  of  Tragedy,  with  Special  Reference  to  the 
Greek  Tragedians,  Cambridge,  1910) 'has  combated  current  beliefs  with 
great  vigour.  His  belief  is  (p.  186)  "that  Tragedy  arose  in  the  worship  of 
the  dead,  and  that  the  only  Dionysiac  element  in  the  Drama  was  the  satyric 
play  ".  Aristotle's  evidence  (see  p.  4)  he  dismisses  as  mistaken,  because 
"Aristotle  was  only  interested  in  Tragedy  as  a  fully  developed  art,  and 
paid  little  heed  to  its  early  history  "  (p.  57).  The  present  writer  is  bound 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY       3 

The  Dorians  claimed  the  credit  of  having  invented 
both  tragedy  and  comedy.1  There  seems  little  doubt 
that  they  provided  the  germ,  though  the  glories  of  Greek 
drama  belong  to  Athens.  Arion,  whose  contribution 
has  been  described,  if  not  himself  a  Dorian,  worked 
among  Dorians  at  Corinth,  which  Pindar,2  for  example, 
recognized  as  the  birthplace  of  the  dithyramb.  More- 
over the  lyrics  of  purely  Attic  tragedy  show  in  their 
language  what  is  generally  regarded  as  a  slight  Doric 
colouring.3 

Aristotle4  sums  up  the  rise  of  tragedy  as  follows  : 

to  confess  that,  after  following  and  estimating  to  the  best  of  his  ability  the 
numerous  and  heterogeneous  statements  put  forward  in  evidence,  he  cannot 
regard  Professor  Ridgeway's  contention  as  proved.  It  is  undoubtedly  true 
that  many  extant  tragedies  centre  more  or  less  vitally  upon  a  tomb,  but 
many  do  not.  The  mimetic  ritual  in  honour  of  the  slain  Scephrus 
(p.  37)  is  real  evidence,  so  far  as  it  goes  ;  but  the  utmost  it  proves  is  that 
Greek  tragedy  could  have  arisen  from  such  funeral  performances  —  it  does 
not  show  that  it  did.  The  most  remarkable  point  in  the  book  is  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  well-known  passage  in  Herodotus  (V,  67)  :  ra  re  817  oAXa  oi 
tuev&vtoi  (TifJicav  TOV  "ASprjcrrov  KOI  877  vpbs  TU  irddfa  avrov  TpayiKoltri  ^opolort 
eyepaipov,  TOV  p.f]v  Aioi/ucrov  ov  Tifj.fa>vTfs,  TOV  8f  *A.8pr)arov.  K.\tio~devr)s  8e 
Xopoiis  fJ.fv  ra>  Atovvtro)  anfSaxf,  TTJV  8e  aX\r)v  dvcrtyv  Me\aviirira>  (see 
Ridgeway,  p.  28)  :  "  The  men  of  Sicyon  paid  honours  to  Adrastus,  and  in 
particular  they  revered  him  with  tragic  choruses  because  of  his  sufferings, 
herein  honouring  not  Dionysus,  but  Adrastus.  Cleisthenes  gave  the 
choruses  to  Dionysus,  and  the  rest  of  the  offering  to  Melanippus."  '  It 
may  well  be  that  Professor  Ridgeway  is  right  in  asserting  that  dirfSvice 
means  not  "  restored  "  but  "  gave  "  —  that  is,  these  tragic  choruses  were 
originally  of  the  funereal  kind  which  he  suggests  for  all  primitive  Greek 
tragedy.  This  is  excellent  evidence  for  his  contention,  so  far  as  it  goes, 
But  it  only  proves  one  example.  Herodotus'  words,  on  the  other  hand. 
imply  that  he  believed  tragedy  to  be  normally  Dionysiac.  To  sum  up, 
we  cannot  regard  Professor  Ridgeway  as  having  succeeded  in  damaging 
the  traditional  view. 

1  Aristotle,  Poetic,  1448^  :  8ib  KOI  avTaroiovvrai  TTJS  Tt  rpayw&'as  KOI  rijr 


2  Ol.,  XIII,  1  8  sq.  :  TOI  AMOI/VO-OV  irodtv  t^efpavev  o~vv  /jorjAarg 
8i0upa/i/3w  ,•   i.e.  as  the  context  shows,  the  dithyramb   appeared  first  at 
Corinth. 

8  a  for  77,  and  sometimes  -av  as  the  inflexion  of  the  feminine  genitive 
plural. 

4  Poetic,  I449a  •'  yfvofitvr]  8'  ovv  drr'  dp^r/s  avToo~^f8iaaTiKrj  .  .  .  airOTwv 
e£apxovT<i>v  TOV  8idvpap.f3ov  .  .  .  KOTO,  fjnicpov  Tjvt-rjdtj  irpoay6vT<av  ocrov  tyiyvtTO 
(pavepov  avTrjs,  KOI  TroXXas  /xerajSoXas  /iera/3aAou(ra  77  TpaywSi'a  tiravtraTO,  €ird 
ecr^e  TT/V  avrrjs  (pvcriv.  KOI  TO  Tf  rwv  viroKpiT&v  ir^jjdos  f£  evbs  €is  8vo  irpwros 
Ato'xi'Xoff  fjyay*  *at  Ta  roO  ^opoC  r)\a.TTa>o~f  nal  TOV  \6yov  irpuTayavicrrfjv 
nap((riifva<Tfv,  rpctj  8e  KOI  <rKT)voypa<piav  2o^>o»cX^r.  rri  8e  TO  pfytdos  e«c 


4  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

"  Tragedy  .  .  .  was  at  first  mere  improvization  .  .  . 
originating  with  the  leaders  of  the  dithyramb.  It  ad- 
vanced by  slow  degrees  ;  each  new  element  that  showed 
itself  was  in  turn  developed.  Having  passed  through 
many  stages,  it  found  its  natural  form,  and  there  it 
stopped.  ./Eschylus  first  introduced  a  second  actor  ;  he 
diminished  the  importance  of  the  chorus,  and  assigned 
the  leading  part  to  the  dialogue.  Sophocles  raised  the 
number  of  actors  to  three,  and  added  scene-painting. 
It  was  not  till  late  that  the  short  plot  was  discarded  for 
one  of  greater  compass,  and  the  grotesque  diction  of  the 
earlier  satyric  form  for  the  stately  manner  of  tragedy. 
The  iambic  measure  then  replaced  the  trochaic  tetra- 
meter, which  was  originally  employed  when  the  poetry 
was  of  the  satyric  order,  and  had  greater  affinities  with 
dancing.  .  .  .  The  number  of  '  episodes  '  or  acts  was 
also  increased,  and  the  other  embellishments  added,  of 
which  tradition  tells." 

We  have  but  meagre  knowledge  of  the  drama  before 
^Eschylus,  whose  vast  achievement  so  overshadowed 
his  predecessors  that  their  works  were  little  read  and 
have  in  consequence  practically  vanished.  Tragedy 
was  born  at  the  moment  when,  as  tradition  relates, 
THESPIS  of  Icaria  in  Attica  introduced  the  actor.  Arion, 
as  we  saw,  had  already  caused  one  of  the  chorus  to 
mount  upon  the  sacrificial  table  or  the  step  of  the  altar 
and  deliver  a  narrative,  or  converse  with  his  fellow- 
choristers,  concerning  Dionysus,  using  not  lyrical  metre, 
but  the  trochaic  tetrameter.1  Thespis'  great  advance 
was  to  introduce  a  person  who  should  actually  present 
the  character  to  whom  Arion's  chorister  had  merely 


fwduv   teal  Ae'£f<ay  yfXoias  8ia  TO  (K  aaTvpiKov 

dr).     TO  Tt  fttTpov  fK  TtTpap.€Tpov  lafjiftdov  eytvfTO  •  TO  fitv  yap  irp&Tov 
Tpto  t^poivTO  8ia  TO  o~aTvpiKT]v  na'i  op^?;oT(Kcorepav  ftvai  TTJV  iroiTj(Tiv  .  .   . 
(Ti  8(   frr(icro8io>v   ir\T]0rj.       Kal  ra  aXX'   a>s  (WMrra  KOO-fj.rj07Jvat  Aryrrai  .    .   . 

Here  and  elsewhere,  in  quoting  from  the  Poetic^  I  borrow  Butcher's  admir- 
able translation. 

1  These  narratives  and  conversations  were  naturally  regarded  as 
interruptions  in  the  main  business,  and  this  feeling  is  marked  by  the  name 
always  given  to  the  "  acts  "  of  a  play,  e'»mcr68ia  ("  episodia  "),  i.e.  "  inter- 
ventions" or  "interruptions". 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY      5 

made  allusion :  the  action,  instead  of  being  reported, 
went  on  before  the  eyes  of  the  audience.  This  change 
clearly  at  once  begets  the  possibility  of  drama,  however 
rudimentary.  By  retiring  to  the  booth  while  the  singers 
perform  their  lyric,  he  can  change  his  mask  and  costume 
and  reappear  as  another  person ;  by  learning  and  dis- 
cussing what  has  been  said  by  his  supposed  predecessor, 
he  can  exhibit  the  play  of  emotion  or  the  construction 
of  a  plan. 

If  this  was  done  by  Thespis,  he  was  the  founder  of 
European  drama.  \\\s>  floruit  may  be  assigned  to  the 
year  535  B.C.,  the  date  of  the  first  dramatic  competition 
at  Athens.  But  little  is  known  of  him.  Aristotle  in 
his  Poetic1  does  not  mention  his  name.  Far  later  we 
have  the  remarks  of  Horace,  "  Diogenes  Laertius,"2  and 
Suidas.  Horace  tells3  that  Thespis  discovered  tragic 
poetry,  and  conveyed  from  place  to  place  on  waggons  a 
company  of  players  who  sang  and  acted  his  pieces,  their 
faces  smeared  with  lees  of  wine :  "  Diogenes  Laertius" 
says  that  Thespis  "  discovered  one  actor ".  Suidas 
gives  us  the  names  of  several  plays,  Phorbas  or  The  Trials 
(a#Xa)  of  Pelias,  The  Priests,  The  Youths,  Pentheus. 
We  possess  four  fragments  alleged  to  belong  to  these, 
but  they  are  spurious.  Aristotle,4  moreover,  affirms 
that  Tragedy  was  in  the  first  place  a  matter  of  im- 
provization.  The  conclusion  seems  to  be  that  Thespis 
did  not  "  write  plays  "  in  the  modern  sense  of  the  phrase. 
He  was  much  more  like  those  Elizabethan  dramatists 
who  provided  "  the  words "  for  their  actors,  and  for 
whom  printing  and  publication  were  only  thought  of  if 
the  play  had  achieved  success  upon  the  boards.  He 
stood  midway  between  /Eschylus  and  the  unknown 
actor-poets  before  Arion  who  improvized  as  they  played. 

The  next  name  of  importance  is  that  of  CHQERILUS 

1  The  text  of  the  treatise  is,  however,  incomplete.  The  author  of  the 
pseudo-Platonic  Minos  (321  A)  speaks  of  the  current  belief  that  Thespis 
was  the  originator  of  tragedy. 

3  This  is  a  mere  name  for  a  really  anonymous  collection  of  information 
on  philosophical  and  other  history. 

*  Ars  Poetica,  275-7.  4  Poetic,  14490. 


6  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

the  Athenian,  who  competed  in  tragedy  for  the  first  time 
during  the  64th  Olympiad  (524-1  B.C.)  and  continued 
writing  for  the  stage  during  forty  years.  He  produced 
one  hundred  and  sixty  plays,  and  obtained  the  first  prize 
thirteen  times.  Later  generations  regarded  him  as 
especially  excellent  in  the  satyric  drama1  invented  by  his 
younger  contemporary  Pratinas.  To  him  were  attributed 
the  invention  of  masks,  as  a  substitute  for  the  wine-lees 
of  Thespis,  and  more  majestic  costume.  We  know  by 
name  only  one  of  his  works,  the  Alope,  which  is  con- 
cerned with  the  Attic  hero  Triptolemus.  A  fragment 
or  two  reveal  an  unexpected  preciosity  of  style ;  he 
called  stones  and  rivers  "the  bones  and  veins  of  the 
earth  ". 

PRATINAS  of  Phlius,  in  the  north  of  the  Peloponnese, 
is  said  to  have  competed  with  yEschylus  and  Chcerilus 
in  the  7Oth  Olympiad  (500-497  B.C.).  His  great  achieve- 
ment, as  we  have  said,  was  the  invention  of  satyric 
drama.  Fifty  plays  are  attributed  to  him,  of  which 
thirty-two  were  satyric.  Hardly  any  fragments  of  these 
are  extant,  but  we  get  some  conception  of  the  man  from 
a  hyporchema  in  which  he  complains  that  music  is  en- 
croaching upon  poetry  :  "let  the  flute  follow  the  dancing 
revel  of  the  song — it  is  but  an  attendant  ".  With  bound- 
less gusto  and  polysyllabic  energy  he  consigns  the  flute 
to  flames  and  derision. 

At  length  we  reach  a  poet  who  seems  to  have  been 
really  great,  a  dramatist  whose  works,  even  to  a  genera- 
tion which  knew  and  reverenced  yEschylus,  seemed 
unworthy  to  be  let  die — PHRYNICHUS  of  Athens,  son  of 
Polyphradmon,  whose  first  victory  occurred  512-509  B.C. 
It  is  said  that  he  was  the  first  to  bring  female  characters 
upon  the  stage  (always,  however,  played  by  men).  The 
following  dramas  are  known  by  name  :  Egyptians  ; 
Alcestis ;  Antaus  or  The  Libyans ;  The  Daughters  of 
Danaus ;  The  Capture  of  Miletus ;  Phoenician  Women 
(Phoenisstz}  ;  The  Women  of  Pleuron ;  Tantalus ; 

1  jSao-iXtvs  rfv  Xot'ptXos  ( v  (rarupoir  (Plotius,  De  Metris,  p.  2633,  quoted 
by  Haigh,  Tragic  Drama,  p.  40). 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY       7 

Troilus.  The  Egyptians  seems  to  have  dealt  with  the 
same  subject  as  the  Supplices  of  yEschylus  ;  so  does  the 
Danaides  ;  these  two  dramas  may  have  formed  part  of 
a  trilogy.  The  Alcestis  followed  the  same  lines  as  the 
Euripidean  play  ;  it  is  probable,  indeed,  that  the  appari- 
tion of  Death  with  a  sword  was  borrowed  by  Euripides 
from  Phrynichus.  The  Antczus  related  the  wrestling- 
match  between  Heracles  and  his  earth-born  foe.  The 
manner  in  which  Aristophanes  *  refers  to  the  play  shows 
that  the  description  of  the  wrestling-bout  was  still 
celebrated  after  the  lapse  of  a  century.  The  Pleuronia 
treated  of  Meleager  and  the  fateful  log  which  was 
preserved,  and  then  burnt  in  anger,  by  his  mother 
Althaea. 

Two  plays  were  specially  important.  The  Phcenissa 
(produced  in  476),  celebrated  the  victory  of  Salamis,  had 
Themistocles  himself  for  choregus,  and  won  the  prize  ; 
its  popularity  never  waned  throughout  the  fifth  century. 
We  are  told  that  the  prologue  was  spoken  by  an  eunuch 
while  he  placed  the  cushions  for  the  Persian  counsellors  ; 
further  —  an  important  fact  —  that  this  person,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  play,  announced  the  defeat  of  Xerxes. 
The  Capture  of  Miletus,  less  popular  in  later  days  —  no 
fragments  at  all  are  to  be  found  —  created  even  more 
stir  at  the  moment.  Miletus  had  been  captured  by 
Darius  in  494  B.C.,  Athens  having  failed  to  give  effec- 
tive support  to  the  Ionian  revolt.  While  the  distress 
and  shame  excited  by  the  fall  of  the  proudest  city  in 
Asiatic  Greece  were  still  strong  in  Athenian  minds, 
Phrynichus  ventured  to  dramatize  the  disaster.  Hero- 
dotus tells  how  "  the  theatre  burst  into  tears  ;  they  fined 
him  a  thousand  drachmae  for  reminding  them  of  their 
own  misfortunes,  and  gave  command  that  no  man 
should  ever  use  that  play  again  ".2 


1  Frogs,  689  :  «?  TIS  rjpMpre  cr<J)a\eis  rt  tpwijfpv  7raXaicr^ia(rti/.  The 
allusion  in  the  first  instance  points  undoubtedly  to  the  famous  general 
Phrynichus  ;  but  his  political  machinations  are  jokingly  referred  to  as  a 
"  wrestling-bout  "  because  of  the  celebrated  description  in  his  namesake  the 
playwright. 

3  Herod.  VI,  21. 


8  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Few  lost  works  are  so  sorely  to  be  regretted  as 
those  of  Phrynichus.  The  collection  of  fragments 
merely  hints  at  a  genius  who  commanded  the  affection 
of  an  age  which  knew  his  great  successors,  a  master 
whose  dignity  was  not  utterly  overborne  by  ^Eschylus, 
and  whose  tenderness  could  still  charm  hearts  which  had 
thrilled  to  the  agonies  of  Medea  and  the  romance  of 
Andromeda.  The  chief  witness  to  his  popularity  is 
Aristophanes,  who  paints  for  us  a  delightful  picture  *  of 
the  old  men  in  the  dark  before  the  dawn,  trudging  by 
lantern-light  through  the  mud  to  the  law-court,  and 
humming  as  they  go  the  "  charming  old-world  honeyed 
ditties"  from  the  Phcenissa.  In  another  play2  the 
birds  assert  that  it  is  from  their  song  that  "  Phrynichus, 
like  his  own  bee,  took  his  feast,  food  of  the  gods,  the 
fruit  of  song,  and  found  unfailingly  a  song  full  sweet  ". 
One  or  two  snatches  survive  from  these  lyrics,  lines 
from  the  Ph&nissce  in  the  "greater  Asclepiad"  metre 
which  is  the  form  of  some  of  Sappho's  loveliest  work, 
and  a  verse  3  from  the  Troilus  which  Sophocles  himself 
quoted  :  "  the  light  of  love  on  rosy  cheeks  is  beaming  ". 

It  is  clear  that  for  most  Athenians  the  spell  of 
Phrynichus  lay  in  his  songs  ;  succeeding  poets  he  im- 
pressed almost  equally  as  a  playwright.  It  has  already 
been  mentioned  that  Euripides  seems  to  have  borrowed 
from  the  Alcestis.  ^Eschylus,  especially,  was  influenced 
by  his  style,  and  in  the  Per  see  followed  the  older  poet 
closely.  Indeed  the  relation  between  the  Persce  and 
the  Phcenissce  is  puzzling,  but  ancient  authority  did  not 
hesitate  to  say  that  the  later  work  was  "  modelled  on  " 
the  earlier.4  It  is  no  question  of  a  rtckanfft  to  suit  the 


22O  (fi(\rj  apxcuofjL€\i(ri8<i>vo<ppvvixf]paTa). 
8  Birds,  748-51,  reading  Zxrirtp  TJ  /xe'Airra. 

3  Ad/iTi-fi  8'  tirl  irop(pvp(at.s  irapfj<n  <p<as  (puiros.     Notice  the  exquisite 
alliteration.     Sophocles  no  doubt  had  this  line  in  mind  when  he  wrote 
Antigone  782. 

4  The  writer  of  the  Argument  to  the  Persce  says  :  T\aincos  tv  rols  irtpl 
Atcr^uXov  fjivduiv  (K.  reoi>  &oivi<r<ra>v  ^pwl^ov  (prja}  rovs  nVperar  irapairfTroifi- 
<rffcu.      The  late  Dr.  Verrall  (The  Bacchantes  of  Euripides  and  Other 
Essays,  pp.  283-308)  believed  that  not  only  is  the  Persa  modelled  on  the 
Phaenissce  but  jEschylus  incorporated  a  large  portion  of  Phrynichus'  play 
with  little  change  (Persce  vv.  480-514  especially). 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY      9 

taste  of  a  later  age,  like  the  revisions  of  Shakespeare 
by  Davenant  and  Gibber,  for  the  two  tragedies  are 
separated  at  the  utmost  by  only  seven  years  ;  rather  we 
appear  to  have  a  problem  like  the  connexion  between 
Macbeth  and  Middleton's  Witch.  Perhaps  the  soundest 
opinion  is  that  the  younger  playwright  wished  to 
demonstrate  his  own  method  of  writing  and  his  theory 
of  dramatic  composition  in  the  most  striking  way  pos- 
sible— by  choosing  a  famous  drama  of  the  more  rudi- 
mentary type  and  rewriting  it  as  it  ought  to  be  written. 
Two  features  in  the  Phcenisscz  seem  to  lend  support 
to  this  view.  Firstly,  the  prologue  was  delivered  by  a 
slave  who  was  preparing  the  seats  of  the  Persian  coun- 
sellors. The  Persez  expunges  the  man  and  his  speech, 
presenting  us  at  once  with  the  elders  in  deliberation. 
Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  the  architectonic  power 
in  literature  than  the  instinct  to  sweep  away  everything 
but  the  minimum  of  mere  machinery  ;  at  the  first  instant 
we  are  in  the  midst  of  the  plot.  Secondly,  the  pro- 
logue at  once  announced  the  disaster.  Nothing  was  left 
but  the  amplification  of  sorrow,  a  quasi-operatic  pre- 
sentation by  the  Phoenician  women  who  formed  the 
chorus.  Here  again  the  Persce  provides  a  most  in- 
structive contrast. 

From  the  fragments,  from  ancient  testimony,  and 
from  the  recasting  of  the  Phcenissce  which  appeared 
instinctive  or  necessary  to  yEschylus,  we  gain  some 
clear  conception  of  Phrynichus.  A  lyrist  of  sweetness 
and  pellucid  dignity,  he  has  been  compared1  to  his 
contemporary  Simonides  ;  the  graceful  phrases  in 
which  Aristophanes  declared  that  Phrynichus  drew 
his  inspiration  from  the  birds  recall  to  us  the  "  native 
wood-notes  wild  "  of  Shakespeare's  earlier  achieve- 
ment. As  a  playwright  in  the  strict  sense  he  is,  for 
us,  the  first  effective  master,  but  still  swayed  by  the 
age  of  pure  lyrists  which  was  just  reaching  its  cul- 
mination and  its  close  in  Pindar — so  greatly  swayed 

1  By  M.  Croiset,  Hist,  de  la  Litt.  grecque^  III,  p.  49. 


10  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

that  the  "  episodes  "  were  still  little  more  than  inter- 
ruptions of  lyrics  which  gave  but  a  static  expression 
to  feeling. 

^SCHYLUS,  the  son  of  Euphorion,  was  born  at 
Eleusis  in  525  B.C.  At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he 
began  to  exhibit  plays,  but  did  not  win  the  prize  until 
the  year  485.  The  Persian  invasions  swept  down  upon 
Athens  when  yEschylus  had  come  to  the  maturity  of 
his  powers.  He  served  as  a  hoplite  at  Marathon  1  and 
his  brother  Cynegirus  distinguished  himself  even  on 
that  day  of  heroes  by  his  desperate  courage  in  attempting 
to  thwart  the  flight  of  the  invaders.  That  the  poet  was 
present  at  Salamis  also  may  be  regarded  as  certain 
from  the  celebrated  description  in  the  Persa.  He 
twice  visited  Sicily.  On  the  first  occasion,  soon  after 
470  B.C.,  he  accepted  the  invitation  of  Hiero,  King 
of  Syracuse,  and  composed  The  Women  of  Etna  to 
celebrate  the  city  which  Hiero  was  founding  on  the 
slope  of  that  mountain.  Various  stories  to  explain 
his  retirement  from  Athens  were  circulated  in  antiquity. 
Some  relate  that  he  was  unnerved  by  a  collapse  of  the 
wooden  benches  during  a  performance  of  one  of  his 
plays.  Others  said  that  he  was  defeated  by  Simonides 
in  a  competition  :  the  task  was  to  write  an  epitaph  on 
those  who  fell  at  Marathon.  According  to  others  he 
was  chagrined  by  a  dramatic  defeat  which  he  sustained 
at  the  hands  of  the  youthful  Sophocles  in  468.  A 
fourth  story  declared  that  he  was  accused  of  divulging 
the  Eleusinian  Mysteries  in  one  of  his  plays,  and  was 
in  danger  of  his  life  until  he  proved  that  he  had  himself 
never  been  initiated.  These  stories  are  hard  to  accept. 
Possibly  he  wrote  something  which  offended  against 

1  This  is  asserted  by  his  epitaph  :  — 

Ev(popiu>i'os  'Adrjvalov  To8e  Ktv6(i 
Karaffrdifjifvov  7rvp<xp6poio  IVXar, 
ii8oKi[j.ov  JAapa6<aviov  aXtrof  &v  t'noi 


These  verses  are  said  to  come  from  the  pen  of  ./Eschylus  himself.  For 
once  such  tradition  appears  to  be  true.  No  forger  would  have  had  the 
audacity  to  omit  all  reference  to  the  plays. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY    11 

Eleusinian  rule,  and  was  condemned  to  banishment 
or  possibly  to  death,  which  (as  often  occurred)  he  was 
allowed  to  escape  by  voluntary  exile.  We  cannot 
suppose  that  he  pleaded  ignorance  l  seriously  ;  a  man 
of  his  genuinely  devout  temperament,  and  a  native 
of  Eleusis,  must  assuredly  have  been  initiated.  A 
second  visit  to  Sicily  was  taken  after  he  had  again 
won  the  prize  with  the  Oresteia.  He  never  returned. 
Story  tells  how  he  was  sitting  on  the  hillside  near 
the  city  of  Gela  when  an  eagle,  flying  with  a  tortoise 
in  its  claws  in  quest  of  a  stone  whereon  to  crush  it, 
dropped  its  prey  upon  the  bald  head  of  the  poet  and 
killed  him.  He  left  two  sons,  Euphorion  and  Bion, 
who  also  pursued  the  tragic  art — a  tradition  which 
persisted  in  the  family  for  generations. 

^schylus  is  too  great  a  dramatist  to  receive  de- 
tailed treatment  in  the  course  of  a  general  discussion  ; 
a  separate  chapter  must  be  allotted  to  this.  At  present 
we  shall  consider  only  his  position  in  the  history  of 
tragedy. 

The  great  technical  change  introduced  by  ^Eschylus 
was  that  he  "  first  introduced  a  second  actor  ;  he  dim- 
inished the  importance  of  the  chorus,  and  assigned  the 
leading  part  to  the  dialogue  ".2  The  two  last  statements 
are  corollaries  of  the  first,  which  describe  a  deeply  im- 
portant advance.  It  has  been  said  above  that  the 
drama  was  founded  by  the  man  who  "  invented  one 
actor  "  ;  at  the  same  time  it  is  easy  to  realize  how  primi- 
tive such  drama  must  have  been.  The  addition  of 
another  actor  did  not  double  the  resources  of  tragedy, 
rather  it  increased  them  fifty-fold.  To  bring  two  opposed 
or  sympathetic  characters  face  to  face,  to  exhibit  the 
clash  of  principles  by  means  of  the  clash  of  personalities, 
this  is  a  step  forward  into  a  new  world,  a  change  so  great 
that  to  call  ^Eschylus  the  very  inventor  of  tragedy  is 

1  This,  however,  is  certainly  stated  by  Aristotle  (Nic.  Ethics,  iiua). 
On  the  other  hand,  yEschylus  says  in  the  Frogs  (886)  :  A^/^rep,  f;  Qpfyaaa 
ri)V  fpqv  (frpfva,  fivai  /xe  rS>v  tr<av  a£i 

a  Aristotle,  Poetic,  I449«. 


18  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

not  unreasonable.  This  meagre  equipment  of  two  actors 
was  found  sufficient  by  two  of  the  fifth-century  masters 
for  work 1  of  the  highest  value.  The  further  remark  of 
Aristotle  that  ^schylus  "  diminished  the  importance 
of  the  chorus  "  follows  naturally  from  the  vast  increase  in 
the  importance  of  the  "  episodes  ". 

Revolutionary  as  yEschylus  was,  he  did  not  attain 
at  a  bound  to  a  characteristic  dramatic  form  of  his  own 
and  then  advance  no  farther.  In  his  earliest  extant 
play,  the  Supplices,  the  alterations  mentioned  above  are 
certainly  in  operation,  but  their  use  is  tentative.  The 
chorus  is  no  doubt  less  dominant  than  it  had  been,  but 
it  is  the  most  important  feature,  even  to  a  modern  reader. 
To  an  ancient  spectator  it  must  have  appeared  of  even 
greater  moment.  The  number  of  singers  was  still  fifty, 
and  the  lyrics,  accompanied  by  music  and  the  dance  of 
this  great  company,  occupy  more  than  half  of  our  present 
text.  We  have  left  Phrynichus  behind,  but  he  is  not  out 
of  sight. 

It  is  necessary  at  this  point  to  give  some  account 
of  the  life  of  SOPHOCLES  and  his  position  in  dramatic 
history,  though  a  detailed  discussion  of  his  extant 
work  must  be  reserved  for  a  separate  chapter.  He 
was  born  about  496  B.C.,  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  citizen 
named  Sophillus,  and  received,  in  addition  to  the  usual 
education,  more  advanced  training  in  music  from  the 
celebrated  Lampros.  The  youth's  physical  beauty  was 
remarkable,  and  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  was  chosen 
to  lead  the  choir  of  boys  who  performed  the  paean 
celebrating  the  victory  of  Salamis.  Nothing  more  is 
known  of  his  life  till  the  year  468,  when  he  produced 
his  first  tragedy.  One  of  his  fellow-competitors  was 
y^schylus,  and  we  are  told2  that  feeling  ran  so  high 
that  the  Archon,  instead  of  choosing  the  judges  by 

1  The  following  plays  were  performed  with  two  actors  only :  of 
yEschylus,  Supplices,  Prometheus,  Persa,  Seven  against  Thebes;  of 
Euripides,  Medea,  and  perhaps  Alcestis. 

8  By  Plutarch,  Life  of  Cimon,  VIII.  Haigh  ( The  Tragic  Drama  of  the 
Greeks,  p.  128")  gives  good  reasons  for  rejecting  the  story. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     13 

lot  as  usual,  entrusted  the  decision  to  the  board  of 
generals ;  they  awarded  the  victory  to  the  youthful 
Sophocles.  For  sixty  years  he  produced  a  steady 
stream  of  dramatic  work  with  continuous  success.  He 
at  first  performed  in  his  own  plays — his  skill  in  the 
Nausicaa  gained  great  applause — but  was  compelled 
to  give  this  up  owing  to  the  failure  of  his  voice.  The 
number  of  his  plays  was  well  over  a  hundred,  performed 
in  groups  of  four,  and  he  won  eighteen  victories  at  the 
City  Dionysia  ;  even  when  he  failed  of  the  first  prize, 
he  was  never  lower  than  the  second  place.1  His  genius 
seems  even  to  have  increased  with  advancing  age  ;  he 
was  about  ninety  when  he  wrote  the  CEdipus  Coloneus. 
Sophocles  took  a  satisfactory  if  not  prominent  part 
in  public  life,2  being  twice  elected  general,  once  with 
Pericles  and  later  with  Nicias.  He  served  also  as  Hel- 
lenotamias — a  member,  that  is,  of  the  Treasury  Board 
which  administered  the  funds  of  the  Delian  Confederacy. 
It  is  an  interesting  comment  on  the  early  part  of  the 
CEdipus  Coloneus  that  the  poet  acted  as  priest  of  two 
heroes,  Asclepius  and  Alcon.  He  had  several  sons, 
the  most  celebrated  of  whom  was  lophon,  himself  a 
tragedian  of  repute.  A  famous  story  relates  that 
lophon,  being  jealous  of  his  illegitimate  brother,  brought 
a  suit  to  prove  his  father's  insanity,  with  the  intent 
to  become  administrator  of  his  estate.  The  aged  poet's 
defence  consisted  in  a  recitation  of  the  CEdipus  Coloneus 
which  he  had  just  completed,  and  the  jury  most  na- 
turally dismissed  lophon's  petition.  He  died  late  in 
406  B.C.,  fully  ninety  years  old,  a  few  months  later 
than  Euripides,  and  not  long  before  the  disaster  of 
/Egospotami.  The  Athenian  people  mourned  him  as 
a  hero  under  the  name  of  Dexion,  "  The  Entertainer," 
or  "  Host,"  and  brought  yearly  sacrifice  to  his  shrine. 
The  personality  of  Sophocles  stands  out  more 

1  One  of  these  occasions  was  that  on  which  he  presented  the  CEdipus 
Tyrannus. 

2  A  fragment  of  Ion's  'En-iS^/at  remarks  :  TO  /iei/roi  TroAtrtKti  o#re  <ro<6f 
ovrf  pfHTT/pios  TJV,  aXX'  <as  uv  rt?  elf  TUI> 


U  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

definitely  before  the  modern  eye  than  that  of  perhaps  any 
other  fifth-century  Greek.  His  social  talent  made  him 
a  noted  figure  whose  good  sayings  were  repeated,  and  of 
whom  the  gossips  as  well  as  the  critics  loved  to  circulate 
illustrative  stories.  He  seemed  the  embodiment  of  all 
that  man  can  ask.  Genius,  good  health,  industry,  long 
life,  personal  beauty,  affluence,  popularity,  and  the  sense 
of  power — all  were  his,  and  enjoyed  in  that  very  epoch 
which,  beyond  all  others,  seems  to  have  combined 
stimulus  with  satisfaction.  Salamis  was  fought  and 
won  just  as  he  had  left  childhood  behind.  His  adoles- 
cence and  maturity  coincided  with  the  rise  and  estab- 
lishment of  the  Athenian  Empire ;  he  listened  to 
Pericles,  saw  the  Parthenon  and  Propylaea  rise  upon 
the  Acropolis,  associated  with  yEschylus,  Euripides, 
Aristophanes,  and  Thucydides,  watched  the  work  of 
Phidias  and  Polygnotus  grow  to  life  under  their  fingers. 
Though  he  carried  into  the  years  of  Nestor  the  genius 
of  Shakespeare,  he  was  yet  so  blessed  that  he  died 
before  the  fall  of  Athens.  Phrynichus,  the  comic  poet, 
wrote  :  "  Blessed  was  Sophocles,  who  passed  so  many 
years  before  his  death,  a  happy  man  and  brilliant,  who 
wrote  many  beautiful  tragedies  and  made  a  fair  end  of 
a  life  which  knew  no  misfortune".1  Sophocles'  own 
words 2  come  as  a  significant  comment : — 

[if]  (bvvat  TOV  airavra  vino,  \oyov. 
TO  8  ,  (7T(\  <f>avf), 
ftrjvai  Kfldtv  SdfVTTfp  17*64, 
TroXii  8fVT€pov  us  Ta\iaTa. 

"  Best  of  all  fates — when  a  man  weighs  everything — is 
not  to  be  born,  and  second-best  beyond  doubt  is,  once 
born,  to  depart  with  all  speed  to  that  place  whence  we 
came." 

Of  his  social  charm  there  are  many  evidences.  He 
gathered  round  him  a  kind  of  literary  club  or  salon. 

1  Aristophanes,  too,  in  the  Frogs  <v.  82),  bears  witness  to  his  charm  : 
6  8'  tvKoXos  p.iv  tvddft',  c&KoXos  8'  ficel-  "  Sophocles,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
gentle  here  (i.e.  in  Hades)  as  he  was  in  life." 

*(Ed.  Col.  1225-8. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     15 

Some  hint  of  the  talk  in  this  circle  may  be  gathered  from 
the  fragment  of  Ion's  Memoirs  which  tells  how  when  the 
poet  came  to  Chios  he  engaged  in  critical  battle  with  the 
local  schoolmaster  concerning  poetical  adjectives,  and 
quoted  with  approbation  Phrynichus'  line  Xa/u.7rei  8'  CTTI 
7ro/3<£vpe/ai5  Trapfja-L  <£ws  e/aeuros.  He  was  a  friend  of 
Herodotus,  from  whom  he  quotes  more  than  once,  and 
to  whom  he  addressed  certain  elegiac  verses.  With 
regard  to  his  own  art,  we  possess  two  remarks  of  deep 
interest.  The  first  is  reported  by  Aristotle  :  l  "  I  depict 
men  as  they  ought  to  be,  Euripides  depicts  them  as  they 
are  ".  It  is  excellent  Attic  for  "  he  is  a  realist,  I  am 
an  idealist  ".  Nevertheless,  he  esteemed  his  rival  ; 
when  he  led  forth  his  chorus  for  the  first  time  after  the 
news  of  Euripides'  death  in  Macedonia  had  reached 
Athens,  he  and  his  singers  wore  the  dress  of  mourning. 
The  second  remark  is  a  brief  account  2  of  his  own  de- 
velopment :  "  My  dramatic  wild  oats  were  imitation  of 
^schylus'  pomp  ;  then  I  evolved  my  own  harsh  man- 
nerism ;  finally  I  embraced  that  style  which  is  best,  as 
most  adapted  to  the  portrayal  of  human  nature  ".  All 
that  we  now  possess  would  seem  to  belong  to  his  third 
period,  though  certain  characteristics  of  the  Antigone 
may  put  us  in  mind  of  the  second.3 

Apart  altogether  from  his  glorious  achievement  in 
actual  composition,  Sophocles  is  highly  important  as  an 
innovator  in  technique.  The  changes  which  he  intro- 
duced are:  (i)  the  number  of  actors  was  raised  from  two 
to  three  ;  4  (ii)  scene-painting  was  invented  4  ;  (iii)  the 
plays  of  a  tetralogy  were,  sometimes  at  any  rate,  no 
longer  part  of  a  great  whole,  but  quite  distinct  in  sub- 
ject ;  5  (iv)  it  is  said  6  that  he  raised  the  number  of  the 

1  Poetic,   1460/5  :   2o^>o»cX^s  efprj  avros  p.tv  oiovs  8(1  iroitlv,  ~Evpiiri&r)v  8e 


ooi 

2  Plutarch,  De  Profectu  in  Virtute,  79  B  :  6  2o(poit\fjs  eXtye,  rov  Ai- 
o^vXov  SioTreTrat^wj  oynov,  tira  TO  irutpov  *cat  Kararc^vov  TJJS  avrov  KaTaorKeuf}?, 
Tpirov  77877  TO  T>7?  Xe'^fcoy  /ieTa/3aXXfti/  etdos  oirep  eoriJ>  r^diKoyrarov  <ai  /3eXTtorov. 

3  See  Haigh,  Tragic  Drama,  p.  162.  4  Aristotle,  Poetic,  1449^. 
6  Suidas  (s.v.  Eo(f)OK\fjs)  '.   nal  avrbs  rjp£f  rov  SpS/na  irpos  8pa/*a  aycavi- 

i,  a\Xa  /*r)  Tfrpakoyiav. 
In  the  Anonymous  Life. 


16  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

chorus  from  twelve  to  fifteen,  was  the  first  tragedian  to 
use  Phrygian  music  and  to  give  his  actors  the  bent  staff 
and  white  shoe  which  they  sometimes  used. 

The  points  named  under  (iv)  are  of  small  importance 
save  the  change  in  the  number  of  choreuta,  but  that  is  a 
detail  which  can  scarcely  be  accepted.  yEschylus  dur- 
ing part  of  his  career  employed  fifty  choreutcz,  and  it  is 
extremely  improbable  that  the  number  sank  as  low  as 
twelve,  only  to  rise  slightly  again  at  once.  The  inven- 
tion of  scene-painting  is  clearly  momentous  ;  it  became 
easy  to  fix  the  action  at  any  spot  desired,  and  a  change 
of  scene  also  became  possible.  ^Eschylus,  of  course,  in 
his  later  years  made  use  of  this  development.  The  other 
two  points  are  vital. 

Though  the  stage  gained  immensely  by  the  intro- 
duction of  a  third  actor,  little  perhaps  need  be  said  on 
the  point.  An  examination  of  the  early  ^schylean 
plays,  and  even  of  the  Choephorce  or  Agamemnon,  side  by 
side  with  the  Philoctetes  or  CEdipus  Coloneus,  will  make 
the  facts  abundantly  clear.  In  the  crisis  of  CEdipus 
Tyrannus  (for  example)  the  presence  of  Jocasta,1  while 
her  husband  hears  the  tidings  brought  by  the  Corinthian, 
does  not  merely  add  to  the  poignancy  of  the  scene  ;  it 
may  almost  be  said  to  create  it. 

The  last  change,  that  of  breaking  up  the  tetralogy 
into  four  disconnected  tragedies,  is  equally  fundamental. 
The  older  poet  was  a  man  of  simple  ideas  and  gigantic 
grasp.  His  conceptions  demanded  the  vast  scope  of  a 
trilogy,  and  perhaps  the  most  astonishing  feature  of  his 
work  is  the  fact  that,  while  each  drama  is  a  splendid  and 
self-intelligible  whole,  it  gains  its  full  import  only  from 
the  significance  of  the  complete  organism.  Sophocles 
realized  that  he  possessed  a  narrower,  if  more  subtle, 
genius,  and  moulded  his  technique  to  suit  his  powers. 
Each  of  his  works,  however  spacious  and  statuesque  it 
may  seem  beside  Macbeth,  Lear,  or  even  Hippolytus, 


made. 


1  See  Haigh,  Attic  Tragedy,  pp.  139  sq.,  where  this  excellent  point  is 
e. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     17 

shows,  as  compared  with  ^ischylus,  a  closeness  of  tex- 
ture in  characterization  and  a  delicate  stippling  of  lan- 
guage, which  mark  nothing  less  than  a  revolution. 

Tradition  tells  that  EURIPIDES  was  born  at  Salamis 
on  the  very  day  of  the  great  victory  (480  B.C.)  ;  the 
Parian  marble  puts  the  date  five  years  earlier.  He  was 
thus  a  dozen  or  more  years  younger  than  Sophocles. 
His  father's  name  was  Mnesarchus  ;  his  mother  Clito  is 
ridiculed  by  Aristophanes  as  a  petty  green-grocer,  but 
all  other  evidence  suggests  that  they  were  well-to-do  ; 
Euripides  was  able  to  devote  himself  to  drama,  from  which 
little  financial  reward  could  be  expected,  and  to  collect 
a  library — a  remarkable  possession  for  those  days.  He 
lived  almost  entirely  for  his  art,  though  he  must,  like  other 
citizens,  have  seen  military  service.  His  public  activities 
seem  to  have  included  nothing  more  extraordinary  than 
a  single  "  embassy  "  to  Syracuse.  Unlike  Sophocles,  he 
cared  little  for  society  save  that  of  a  few  intimates,  and 
wrote  much  in  a  cave  on  Salamis  which  he  had  fitted  up 
as  a  study.  The  great  philosopher  Anaxagoras  was  his 
friend  and  teacher  ;  several  passages l  in  the  extant  plays 
point  plainly  to  his  influence.  It  was  in  Euripides' 
house  that  Protagoras  read  for  the  first  time  his  treatise 
on  the  gods  which  brought  about  the  sophist's  expulsion 
from  Athens.  Socrates  himself  is  traditionally  regarded 
as  the  poet's  friend.  Aulus  Gellius 2  says  that  he  began 
to  write  tragedy  at  the  age  of  eighteen ;  but  it  was 
not  till  455  B.C.  (when  he  was  perhaps  thirty)  that  he 
"  obtained  a  chorus  " — that  is,  had  his  work  accepted  for 
performance.  One  of  these  pieces  was  the  Peliades  ;  he 
obtained  only  the  third  place.  By  the  end  of  his  life  he 
had  written  nearly  a  hundred  dramas,  including  satyric 
works,  but  obtained  the  first  prize  only  four  times  :  his 
fifth  victory  was  won  by  the  tetralogy  which  included 
the  Bacchce,  performed  after  his  death.  His  influence 

1  The  most  celebrated   is   the  description  of  the  sun  as  a   "  clod " 
(Orestes,  983).     Alcestis,  904  syg.,  may  very  possibly  refer  to  the  death  of 
Anaxagoras'  son. 

2  XV,  20. 


18  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

was  far  out  of  proportion  to  these  scanty  rewards.1  On 
any  given  occasion  he  might  be  defeated  by  some  talented 
mediocrity  who  hit  the  taste  of  the  moment.  When  he 
offered  the  Medea  itself  he  was  overcome,  not  only  by 
Sophocles,  but  by  Euphorion  ;  yet  his  vast  powers  were 
recognized  by  all  Athens.  Euripides  was  married — 
twice  it  is  said — and  had  three  sons.  Late  in  his  life  he 
accepted  an  invitation  from  Archelaus,  King  of  Mace- 
donia ;  after  living  there  a  short  time  in  high  favour  and 
writing  his  latest  plays,  he  died  in  406  B.C.  He  was 
buried  in  Macedonia  and  a  cenotaph  was  erected  to  his 
memory  in  Attica. 

Further  light  both  on  the  career  and  works  of 
Euripides  has  recently  been  provided  by  an  interesting 
discovery.  In  1912  Dr.  Arthur  S.  Hunt  published2 
extensive  fragments  of  a  life  of  the  poet  by  Satyrus, 
from  portions  of  a  papyrus-roll  found  at  Oxyrhynchus 
in  Egypt  by  Dr.  Grenfell  and  Dr.  Hunt.  Satyrus 
lived  in  the  third  century  before  Christ  :  our  MS. 
itself  is  dated  by  its  discoverers  "from  the  middle  or 
latter  part  of  the  second  century  "  after  Christ.  The 
most  striking  points  are  (i)  Satyrus  quotes  the  fragment 
of  the  Pirithous  dealt  with  below,3  attributing  it,  as  was 
often  done,  to  Euripides,  and  saying  that  the  poet  "  has 
accurately  embraced  the  whole  cosmogony  of  Anaxa- 
goras  in  three  periods"  ;*  (ii)  there  are  new  fragments, 
on  the  vain  pursuit  of  wealth  ;  (iii)  the  poet  was  prose- 
cuted for  impiety  by  the  statesman  Cleon  ;  (iv)  we  read 
that  Euripides  wrote  the  proem  for  the  Persa  com- 
posed by  his  friend  the  musician  Timotheus  ;  (v) 
Satyrus,  in  discussing  fiertfleteia,  mentions  "ravishings, 
supposititious  infants,  and  recognitions  by  means  of  rings 
and  necklaces — for  these,  as  you  know,  are  the  back- 

1  A  passage  in  his  Life  suggests  that  he  was  indifferent  to  the  strictly 
"  theatrical  "  side  of  his  profession  :  oufi«^«av  <£iAoTtp'av  irtpl  ra  dtarpa 

7TOIOVU,€VOS  '    8lO  TOCTOVTOV  OVTOV   (j3\aiTTf  TOVTO  OCTOV  OX^f'Xft  TOV   2<l(f)OK\fa. 

*  Oxyrhynchus  Papyri^  Vol.  IX,  pp.  124-82. 
8  Pp.  29  sq. 

4  dicptftus  5\ws  ntpi(i\T)<ptv  rov  'Aya£aydp«toi/  8iaKO(Tpov  fv  rpuriv  irfpto- 
ioir. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     19 

bone   of  the    New  Comedy,   and    were   perfected    by 
Euripides  ". 

A  discussion  of  Euripides'  surviving  work  will  be 
found  in  a  separate  chapter.  Our  business  here  is  to 
indicate  his  position  in  the  development  of  technique. 
Though  he  is  for  ever  handling  his  material  and  the 
resources  of  the  stage  in  an  original  and  experimental 
manner,  the  definite  changes  which  he  introduced  are 
few.  That  many  of  his  dramas  are  not  tragedies  at  all 
but  tragicomedies,  is  a  development  of  the  first  impor- 
tance. Another  fact  of  this  kind  is  his  musical  innova- 
tions. The  lyrics  of  his  plays  tend  to  become  less 
important  as  literature  and  to  subserve  the  music,  in 
which  he  introduced  fashions  not  employed  before,  such 
as  the  "mixed  Lydian";  it  is  impossible  to  criticize 
some  of  his  later  odes  without  knowledge,  which  we  do 
not  possess,  of  the  music  which  he  composed  for  them 
and  the  manner  in  which  he  caused  them  to  be  rendered. 
Hence  the  loose  syntax,  the  polysyllabic  vagueness  of 
expression,  and  the  repeated  words — features  which 
irritated  Aristophanes  and  many  later  students. 

Another  novelty  is  his  use  of  the  prologue.  Since 
this  is  properly  nothing  but  "  that  part  of  the  play  which 
precedes  the  first  song  of  the  whole  chorus,"  l  prologues 
are  of  course  found  in  ./Eschylus  and  Sophocles.  The 
peculiarity  of  the  Euripidean  prologue  is  that  it  tends  to 
be  non-dramatic,  a  narrative  enabling  the  spectator  to 
understand  at  what  point  in  a  legend  the  action  is  to 
begin.  It  is  from  Euripides'  use  of  the  prologue  that 
the  modern  meaning  of  the  word  is  derived. 

Aristophanes  in  his  Frogs  makes  a  famous  attack  upon 
most2  sides  of  Euripides'  art  as  contrasted  with  that  of 
^Eschylus.  But  it  is  often  forgotten  that,  damned  utterly 
as  the  younger  tragedian  is,  ^schylus  by  no  means 

1  Aristotle,  Poetic,  14526. 

2  Not  all.     The  elegance  of  his  iambic  style  excited  Aristophanes' 
admiration :  indeed  he  confessed  to  imitating  it,  and  the  great  Cratinus 
invented  a  significant  compound  verb  (vpiiridapio-To(f)avi((iv.     See  Mein- 
eke,  Frag,  Comicorum  Graecorum,  II,  1142. 


20  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

escapes  criticism.  Many  of  the  censures  put  into 
Euripides'  mouth  are  just  and  important ;  it  seems  likely 
that  Aristophanes  is  practically  quoting  his  victim's 
conversation ;  the  remark 1  about  ^Eschylus  that  "  he 
was  obscure  in  his  prologues,"  is  no  mere  rubbish  attri- 
buted to  a  dullard.  That  Euripides  did  criticize  his 
elder  is  a  fact.  The  Supplices 2  contains  a  severe  remark 
on  the  catalogue  of  chieftains  in  the  Septem  ;  the  elabor- 
ate sarcasm  directed  in  the  Electro, 3  against  the  Recog- 
nition-scene of  the  Choephorce  is  even  more  startling. 
Besides  this,  Aristophanes  seems  to  quote  remarks  of 
Euripides  on  himself  and  his  work  :  "When  I  first  took 
over  the  art  from  you,  I  found  it  swollen  with  braggadocio 
and  tiresome  words  ;  so  the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  train 
down  its  fat  and  reduce  its  weight".  4  His  comment  on 
dialogue  is  no  less  pertinent :  "  With  you  Niobe  and 
Achilles  never  said  a  word,  but  I  left  no  personage  idle  ; 
women,  slaves,  and  hags  all  spoke ". 5  Finally,  there 
is  the  perfect  description  of  his  own  realism 6  :  ot/ceia 
TT pay par  ela-dyuv,  ofs  x/>w/xe#',  019  crweayxev,  "  I  intro- 
duced life  as  we  live  it,  the  things  of  our  everyday  experi- 
ence ".  Such  sentences  as  these  reflect  unmistakably  the 
conversation  of  a  playwright  who  was  jealous  for  the 
dignity  and  the  progress  of  his  art. 

Though  during  his  own  time  Euripides  was  hardly 
equal  in  repute  to  his  two  companions,  scarcely  had 
his  Macedonian  grave  closed  over  him  than  his  popu- 
larity began  to  overshadow  theirs.  ^Eschylus  became 
a  dim  antique  giant  ;  Sophocles,  though  always  ad- 
mired, was  too  definitely  Attic  and  Periclean  to  retain 
all  his  prestige  in  the  Hellenistic  world.  It  was  the 
more  cosmopolitan  poet  who  won  posthumous  applause 
from  one  end  of  the  civilized  earth  to  the  other.  From 
400  B.C.  to  the  downfall  of  the  ancient  world  he  was 

1  Frogs,  V.  1122  :   do-CK^y  yap  fjv  tv  177  (frpdcrd  rS)t>  irpayfjMTav. 
3  vv.  846-54.  3vv.  518-44. 

*  Frogs,  939  sqq.  s  Ibid.  948  sqq. 

8  Ibid.  959  :  <TVV«T^V  may  recall  Grant  Allen's  famous  sentence  about 
taking  Hedda  Gabler  down  to  dinner. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     21 

unquestionably  better  known  and  admired  than  any 
other  dramatist.  This  is  shown  by  the  much  larger 
collection  of  his  work  which  has  survived,  by  the 
imitation  of  later  playwrights,  and  by  innumerable 
passages  of  citation,  praise,  and  comment  in  writers 
of  every  kind.  He  shared  with  Homer,  Vergil,  and 
Horace  the  equivocal  distinction  of  becoming  a  school- 
book  even  in  ancient  times.  Nine  of  our  nineteen 
plays  were  selected  for  this  purpose  :  Alcestis,  Andro- 
mache, Hecuba,  Hippolytus,  Medea,  Orestes,  Phoznissce, 
Rhesus,  and  Troades.  It  is  not  easy  to  see  what 
principle  of  selection  prompted  the  educationists  of 
the  day  :  Andromache  and  Hippolytus  do  not  strike 
a  modern  reader  as  specially  "  suitable ".  Owing 
to  their  use  in  schools  they  were  annotated ;  these 
scholia  are  still  extant  and  are  often  of  great  value. 
In  the  Byzantine  age  the  number  was  reduced  to  three  : 
Hecuba,  Orestes,  Phoznissce. 

Among  the  numerous  lesser  tragedians  of  the  fifth 
century  five  hold  a  distinguished  place  :  Neophron  of 
Sicyon,  Aristarchus  of  Tegea,  Ion  of  Chios,  Achseus  of 
Eretria,  Agathon  of  Athens. 

NEOPHRON  is  an  enigmatic  figure.  It  would  seem 
that  he  was  an  important  forerunner  of  Euripides.  Not 
only  do  we  learn  that  he  wrote  one  hundred  and  twenty 
tragedies  and  that  he  was  the  first  to  bring  upon  the 
stage  "psedagogi"  and  the  examination  of  slaves  under 
torture  ;  it  is  said  also  that  his  Medea  was  the  original 
of  Euripides'  tragedy  so-named.1  "  Paedagogi  "  or 
elderly  male  attendants  of  children  are  familiar  in 
Euripides,  and  the  "  questioning  "  of  slaves  is  shown 
(though  not  to  the  audience)  in  the  Ion?  As  for  the 
third  point,  we  have  three  fragments  which  clearly  recall 
the  extant  play — a  few  lines  in  which  yEgeus  requests 

1  Of  these  three  points  the  first  two  come  from  Suidas  (under  the 
article  Nt6(j)p<av),  the  third  from  the  argument  to  the  extant  Medea  :  TO  8pS/xa 
8o<fl  vrrofta\€(r0ai  ra  Neocppoi/or  Siacncevacrar,  a>?  Ai/caiap^os  Te  ?repl  TO\> 
'EXXdSor  ftiov  KCU  'ApiOTOTeX?/?  fv  {j7rofjLvrj/j.acr^, 


22  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Medea  to  explain  the  oracle,  a  few  more  in  which  she 
tells  Jason  how  he  shall  die,  and  the  celebrated  passage 
which  reads  like  a  shorter  version  of  her  great  soliloquy 
when  deciding  to  slay  her  children.  There  is  the  same 
anguish,  the  same  vacillation,  the  same  address  to  her 
"passion  "  (Qvpos).  Such  a  writer  is  plainly  epoch-mak- 
ing :  he  adds  a  new  feature  to  tragedy  in  the  life-time  of 
Sophocles.  The  realism  of  everyday  life  and  the  pangs 
of  conscience  battling  with  temptation — these  we  are 
wont  to  call  Euripidean.  But  some  have  denied  the 
very  existence  of  Neophron  as  a  dramatist :  the  frag- 
ments are  fourth-century  forgeries,  or  Euripides  brought 
out  a  first  edition l  of  his  play  under  Neophron's  name. 
Against  these  views  is  the  great  authority  of  Aristotle,2 
who,  however,  may  have  been  deceived  by  the  name 
"  Neophron"  in  official  records.  An  argument  natural 
to  modern  students,  that  a  poet  of  Euripides'  calibre 
would  not  have  borrowed  and  worked  up  another's  play, 
is  of  doubtful  strength.  ^Eschylus,  as  we  have  seen, 
probably  acted  so  towards  Phrynichus.  The  best  view 
is  probably  that  of  antiquity.  We  may  note  that  S  icy  on 
is  close  to  Corinth,  and  that  a  legend  domestic  to  the 
latter  city  might  naturally  find  its  first  treatment  in  a 
playwright  of  Sicyon. 

ARISTARCHUS  of  Tegea,  whose  dtbut  is  to  be  dated 
about  453  B.C.,  is  said  by  Suidas  to  have  lived  for  over 
a  hundred  years,  to  have  written  seventy  tragedies, 
two  of  which  won  the  first  prize,  and  one  of  which  was 
called  Asclepius  (a  thank-offering  for  the  poet's  re- 
covery from  an  illness),  and  to  have  "  initiated  the 
present  length  of  plays  ".3  This  latter  point  sounds 
important,  but  it  is  difficult  to  understand  precisely  what 
Suidas  means.  For  though  the  average  Sophoclean 
or  Euripidean  tragedy  is  longer  than  the  ^/Eschylean, 

1  There  is  good  reason  to  suppose  that  what  we  possess  is  a  second 
version.     The  scholiast  on  Aristophanes  mentions  passages  as  parodies 
of  lines  in  the  Medea  which  we  no  longer  read  there. 

2  In  his  viropv^paTo.,  quoted  by  the  Argument  to  the  Medea, 

3  frpuros  fh  TO  vvv  p.r]Kos  TCI  ftpufiara  KaTe(rrn<r(i>, 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     23 

Aristarchus  began  work  later  than  Sophocles  and  no 
earlier  than  Euripides.  It  has  been  thought  that 
Suidas  refers  to  the  length  of  dramas  in  post-Euripidean 
times,  but  of  these  we  have  perhaps  no  examples.1 
Aristarchus'  reputation  was  slight  but  enduring.  Ennius 
two  and  a  half  centuries  later  translated  his  Achilles  into 
Latin  ;  the  same  work  is  quoted  in  the  prologue  of  Plau- 
tus'  Posnulus.  A  phrase2  from  another  play  became 
proverbial. 

A  more  distinguished  but  probably  less  important 
writer  was  ION  of  Chios,  son  of  Orthomenes,  who  lived 
between  484  and  421  B.C.  A  highly  accomplished 
man  of  ample  means,  he  travelled  rather  widely.  In 
Athens  he  must  have  spent  considerable  time,  for 
he  was  intimate  with  Cimon  and  his  circle,  and  produced 
plays  the  number  of  which  is  by  one  authority  put  at 
iforty.  Besides  tragedy  and  satyric  drama,  he  wrote 
comedies,  dithyrambs,  hymns,  paeans,  elegies,  epigrams, 
and  scolia.  He  was,  moreover,  distinguished  in  prose 
writing  :  we  hear  of  a  book  on  the  Pounding  of  Chios, 
of  a  philosophic  work,  and  of  certain  memoirs.3  This 
latter  work  must  be  a  real  loss  to  us,  if  we  may  judge 
from  its  fragments.  In  the  fifth  century  B.C.  no  one 
but  a  facile  Ionian  would  have  thought  it  worth  while 
to  record  mere  gossip  even  about  the  great  ;  for  us 
there  is  great  charm  in  an  anecdote  like  that  of  the 
literary  discussion  between  Sophocles  and  the  school- 
master, or  the  exclamation  of  ^Eschylus  at  the  Isthmian 
Games.4  Ion  would  seem  to  have  been  less  a  great 

1  Unless  we  except  the  Rhesus  (996  lines). 

2  The  original  form  of  it  seems  to  have  been  : — 

WOT'  ov%  virdpxcav  dXXa  Tip,a>poi>fj.fi>os 
ay  a>v  iovp.cu. 

3  The  name  is  not  certain.     The  book  is  variously  called  vnop-vrip^iTa 
("  notes  "),  eni8r)p.{ai   ("  visits  "),  and   (rtu/eK&^ruco?.     The  first  is  not  a 
"  name  " — it  merely  describes  the  book.     The  second  was  explained  by 
Bentley  to  mean  "  accounts  of  the  visits  to  our  island  of  Chios  by  dis- 
tinguished strangers  ".     The  third  could  mean  something  like  "  traveller's 
companion  ". 

4  Plutarch  (De  Profectu  in  Virtute,  79  E),  no  doubt  quoting  from  Ion, 
tells  us  that  at  a  critical  moment  in  a  boxing  match  ^schylus  nudged  Ion 


24  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

poet  than  a  delightful  belletrist  ;  the  quality  is  well 
shown  in  his  remark  *  that  life,  like  a  tragic  tetralogy, 
should  have  a  satyric  element.  One  year  he  obtained 
a  sensational  success  by  winning  the  first  prize  both 
for  tragedy  and  for  a  dithyramb  ;  to  commemorate 
this  he  presented  to  each  Athenian  citizen  a  cask  of 
Chian  wine.  He  died  before  421,  the  date  of  Aristo- 
phanes' Peace?  wherein  he  is  spoken  of  as  transformed 
into  a  star,  in  allusion  to  a  charming  lyric  passage  of 
his  :  — 

(ianov  dtpofyoirav 

dcrrtpa  fi(ivap.(v  d(\iov  \fVKOirTepvya  irp68pop.ov. 


"  We  awaited  the  star  that  wanders  through  the  dawn- 
lit  sky,  pale-winged  courier  of  the  sun." 

His  tragedies,3  though  they  do  not  appear  to  have 
had  much  effect  on  the  progress  of  technique  or  on 
public  opinion,  were  popular.  Aristophanes,  for  instance, 
nearly  twenty  years  after  his  death,  quotes  a  phrase  from 
his  Sentinels*  as  proverbial,  and  centuries  later  the 
author  of  the  treatise  On  the  Sublime  5  wrote  his  cele- 
brated verdict  :  "In  lyric  poetry  would  you  prefer  to  be 
Bacchylides  rather  than  Pindar  ?  And  in  tragedy  to  be 
Ion  of  Chios  rather  than  —  Sophocles  ?  It  is  true  that 
Bacchylides  and  Ion  are  faultless  and  entirely  elegant 
writers  of  the  polished  school,  while  Pindar  and  Sophocles, 
although  at  times  they  burn  everything  before  them  as 
it  were  in  their  swift  career,  are  often  extinguished  un- 
accountably and  fail  most  lamentably.  But  would  any- 
one in  his  senses  regard  all  the  compositions  of  Ion  put 
together  as  an  equivalent  for  the  single  play  of  the 
CEdipus?" 

and  said  :  "  You  see  what  a  difference  training  makes  ?     The  man  who  has 
received  the  blow  is  silent,  while  the  spectators  cry  aloud." 

1  Plutarch,  Pericles,  Chap.  V. 

2  v.  835.  To  the  scholium  on  this  line  we  owe  much  of  our  information 
about  Ion. 

3  One  of  them  bears  the  curious  title  "Great  Play  "  (piya  Spapz),  but 
nothing  is  known  of  it. 

*  Frogs,  1425. 

8  JCXXIII,  5  (Prof.  Rhys  Roberts'  translation). 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     25 

ACH^EUS  of  Eretria  was  born  in  484  B.C.,  and  exhibited 
his  first  play  at  Athens  in  447.  He  won  only  one  first 
prize  though  we  hear  that  he  composed  over  forty  plays, 
nearly  half  of  which  are  known  by  name.  That  he 
was  second  only  to  ^Eschylus  in  satyric  drama  was  the 
opinion  held  by  that  delightful  philosopher  Menedemus  l 
the  minor  Socratic,  the  seat  of  whose  school  was  Eretria 
itself,  Achaeus'  birthplace. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  the  apparent  disproportion 
of  satyric  plays  written  by  Achaeus  is  to  be  accounted 
for  by  his  having  written  them  for  other  poets.2  He  is 
once  copied  by  Euripides  and  parodied  twice  by  Aris- 
tophanes.3 Athenaeus  makes  an  interesting  comment 
on  his  style  :  "  Achaeus  of  Eretria,  though  an  elegant 
poet  in  the  structure  of  his  plots,  occasionally  blackens 
his  phrasing  and  produces  many  cryptic  expressions".4 
The  instance  which  he  gives  is  significant  :  — 

\iddpyvpos  8' 

o\irr)  irapTjwpflro  xpiff^iaros  ir\ta 
TOV  'STrapTidrrjv  ypairrov  ev  StTrXw 


"  the  cruse  of  alloyed  silver,  filled  with  ointment,  swung 
beside  the  Spartan  tablet,  double  wood  inscribed  ". 
That  is,  "  he  carried  an  oil-  flask  and  a  Spartan  general's 
baton  ".  Aiming  at  dignified  originality  of  diction 
Achaeus  has  merely  fallen  into  queerness.  On  the 
other  side,  when  he  seeks  vigorous  realism  he  becomes 
quaintly  prosaic.  In  the  Philoctetes,  for  instance,  Aga- 
memnon utters  the  war-cry  eXeXeXev  in  the  middle  of  an 
iambic  line. 

A  far  more  noteworthy  dramatist  was  AGATHON  the 
Athenian,  who  seems  to  have  impressed  his  contempor- 
aries, and  even  the  exacting  Aristotle,  as  coming  next  in 
merit  to  the  three  masters.  Born  about  446  B.C.,  he 

1  Diog.  Laert.  II,  133. 

2  Croiset  III,  p.  400  (n.),  thus  explains  the  strange  words  of  Suidas, 
fireSfinvvTO  8f  KOIVJJ  <rvv  nal  EvpiTri'S^. 

3  Haigh,  Tragic  Drama  of  the  Greeks,  p.  409. 
4Ath.  X,  451  C, 


26  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

won  his  first  victory  in  416  and  retired  to  the  Court 
of  the  Macedonian  prince  Archelaus  some  time  before 
the  death  of  Euripides  (406).  From  contemporary 
evidence  we  gather  that  he  was  popular  as  a  writer  and 
as  a  social  figure,  handsome,  and  given  to  voluptuous 
living. 

Three  striking  innovations  are  credited  to  him  :  — 
(i)  He  produced  at  least  one  play  of  which  both 
the  plot  and  the  characters  were  invented  by  himself.1 
The  name  of  this  "attractive"  drama  is  uncertain:  it 
may  have  been  The  Flower  (Anthos)  or  Antheus. 
Agathon,  here  as  elsewhere,  shows  himself  a  follower 
of  Euripides.  The  master  had  employed  recognized 
myths  as  a  framework  for  a  thoroughly  "modern" 
treatment  of  ordinary  human  interests  ;  his  disciple 
finally  throws  aside  the  convention  of  antiquity. 

(ii)  Another  post-Euripidean  feature  is  the  use  of 
musical  interludes.  Aristotle  tells  us  :  "  As  for  the  later 
poets,  their  choral  songs  pertain  as  little  to  the  subject  of 
the  piece  as  to  that  of  any  other  tragedy.  They  are 
therefore  sung  as  mere  interludes  —  a  practice  first  begun 
by  Agathon."  Our  poet  then  is  once  more  found  com- 
pleting a  process  which  his  friend  had  carried  far. 
Sophocles  had  diminished  the  length  and  dramatic  im- 
portance of  the  lyrics,  but  with  him  they  were  still 
entirely  relevant.  Euripides  shows  a  strong  tendency  to 
write  his  odes  as  separable  songs,  but  complete  irrelevance 
is  hardly  found.  Plays  such  as  Agathon's  could  obviously 
be  performed,  if  necessary,  without  the  trouble  and  ex- 
pense of  a  chorus,  which  in  process  of  time  altogether 
disappeared.  His  interludes  served,  it  seems,  more  as 
divisions  between  "  acts  "  than  as  an  integral  part  of  the 
play.  In  this  connexion  should  be  mentioned  his  in- 
novation in  the  accompaniment  —  the  use  of  "chromatic" 
or  coloured  style.3  His  florid  music  is  laughed  at  by 
Aristophanes  as  "  ants'  bye-paths  ".  4 


Aristotle,  Poetic, 

2  Ibid.  1456^  (Butcher's  translation). 

3  Plutarch,  Symposiaca,  645  E,  4  Thesm,  loo  :  ^vppjicos  arpairovy, 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     27 

(iii)  Occasionally  he  took  a  great  extent  of  legend 
as  the  topic  of  a  single  drama,  and  it  seems  likely l  that 
he  composed  a  Fall  of  Troy>  taking  the  whole  epic 
subject  instead  of  an  episode.  Agathon  is  trying  yet 
another  experiment — it  was  necessary  for  a  writer  of  his 
powers  to  vary  in  some  way  from  Euripides,  but  this 
attempt  was  unsatisfactory.2 

In  the  Thesmophoriazusce  Aristophanes  pays 
Agatfaon  the  honour  of  elaborate  parody.  Euripides 
comes  to  beg  his  friend  to  plead  for  him  before  an 
assembly  of  Athenian  women,  and  the  scene  in  which 
Agathon  amid  much  pomp  explains  the  principles  of  his 
art,  contains  definite  and  valuable  criticism  under  the 
usual  guise  of  burlesque  ;  that  Aristophanes  valued  him 
is  shown  by  the  affectionate  pun  on  his  name  which  he 
introduces  into  the  Frogs  (v.  84):  — 

dyadbs  jrotqnjr  teat  iroQavbs  rots  <pi\oi?, 

"a  good  poet,  sorely  missed  by  his  friends".  Plato 
lays  the  scene  of  his  Symposium  in  the  house  of  Agathon, 
who  is  celebrating  his  first  tragic  victory ;  the  poet  is 
depicted  as  a  charming  host,  and,  when  the  conversation 
turns  to  a  series  of  panegyrics  upon  the  god  of  Love, 
offers  a  contribution  to  which  we  shall  return. 

From  these  sources  we  learn  as  usual  little  about  the 
poet's  dramatic  skill,  much  as  to  his  literary  style.  But 
under  the  first  head  falls  a  vital  remark  of  Aristotle  : 
"in  his  reversals  of  the  action  (i.e.  \h&  peripeteia),  how- 
ever, he  shows  a  marvellous  skill  in  the  effort  to  hit  the 
popular  taste — to  produce  a  tragic  effect  that  satisfies 
the  moral  sense.  This  effect  is  produced  when  the  clever 
rogue,  like  Sisyphus,  is  outwitted,  or  the  brave  villain 
defeated.  Such  an  event  is,  moreover,  probable  in 
Agathon's  sense  of  the  word  :  '  it  is  probable,'  he  says, 
'  that  many  things  should  happen  contrary  to  proba- 
bility'."3 Agathon  belongs  to  the  class  of  playwrights 
who  win  popularity  by  bringing  down  to  the  customary 
theatrical  level  the  methods  and  ideas  of  a  genius  who  is 

Aristotle,  Poetic,  1 45^.  *  Ibid,  *  Ibid, 


28  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

himself  too  undiluted  and  strange  for  his  contemporaries. 
Agathon's  relation  to  Euripides  resembles  that  of  (let  us 
say)  Mr.  St.  John  Hankin,  in  his  later  work,  to  Ibsen. 
Of  his  literary  style  much  the  same  may  be  said.  He 
loves  to  moralize  on  chance  and  probability  and  the 
queer  twists  of  human  nature,  with  Euripides'  knack  of 
neatness  but  without  his  insight.  Such  things  as 


yap  avrov  xal  dibs 
ayivTjra  iroulv  acrcr'  av  y  irenpayfiiva 

"  this  alone  is  beyond  the  power  even  of  God,  to  make 
undone  that  which  has  been  done,"  and  even  the  cele- 

brated T€)(Vr}  TV^qV  €CTT€p^€  KOi  TV^TJ  T€-^VTr)V,    "  skill  loVCS 

luck,  and  luck  skill,"  give  the  measure  of  his  power  over 
epigram.  His  easy  way  of  expressing  simple  ideas  with 
admirable  neatness  may  remind  us  of  a  much  greater 
dramatist  —  Terence,  or,,  in  later  times,  of  Marivaux.1 

Plato  tells  us  that  he  was  a  pupil  both  of  Prodicus  2 
and  of  Gorgias,3  the  renowned  sophists,  and  we  may 
trace  their  teaching  in  the  fragments  and  in  the  remark- 
able speech  which  the  greatest  stylist  of  all  time  puts 
into  his  mouth  in  the  Symposium  —  the  rhymes,  antitheses, 
quibbles,  and  verbal  trickiness  of  argument.  The  parody, 
both  brilliant  and  careful,  which  Aristophanes  presents 
at  the  opening  of  his  Thesmophoriazusce  is  directed 
chiefly  perhaps  against  his  music,  whereof  we  have  no 
trace.  The  blunt  auditor,  Mnesilochus,  describes  it  as 
lascivious.4  The  words  set  to  it  read  like  a  feeble 
copy  of  Euripides  —  fluent,  copious,  nerveless,  in  spite 
of  the  "lathe,"  the  "glue,"  the  "melting-pot,"  and  the 
"  moulds  "  5  over  which  his  satirist  makes  merry. 

1  Such  a  sentence  as  that  of  M.  Orgon  in  Le  jeu  de  r  amour  et  du 
hasard  (I,  ii.)  :  "  Va,  dans  ce  monde,  il  faut  etre  un  peu  trop  bon  pour  1'etre 
assez,"  strikes  one  as  thoroughly  Agathonesque. 

3  Protagoras,  3  1  5  E. 

3  Symposium,  198  C.  Socrates  says  of  Agathon's  panegyric  upon 
Eros  :  *al  yap  fif  Yopy'tov  6  Xoyoj  dvffjLijjLvrja-Kfv.  The  whole  speech  of 
Agathon  is  intended  to  show  these  characteristics.  Cp.,  for  example,  197 
D  :  tTpaoTrjra  p£v  iropifov,  dypdrqra  8'  (£opi£a>v  •  <f>i\68o)pos 


4  Tftesm.  i^osgy.  6  Ibid. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     29 

Agathon,  then,  marks  unmistakably  the  beginning 
of  decadence.  The  three  masters  had  exhausted  the 
possibilities  of  the  art  open  to  that  age.  A  new  impulse 
from  without  or  the  social  emancipation  of  women  might 
have  opened  new  paths  of  achievement.  But  no  great 
external  influence  was  to  come  till  Alexander,  and  then 
the  result  for  Greece  itself  was  loss  of  independence  and 
vigour.  And  the  little  that  could  be  done  with  women 
still  in  the  harem  or  the  slave-market  was  left  to  be 
performed  by  Menander  and  his  fellow-comedians.1 
Agathon  made  a  valiant  effort  to  carry  tragedy  into  new 
channels,  but  lacked  the  genius  to  leave  more  than  clever 
experiments. 

On  a  lower  plane  of  achievement  stands  CRITIAS,  the 
famous  leader  of  the  "  Thirty  Tyrants  ".  Two  tragedies 
from  his  pen  are  known  to  us,  Pirithous'*'  and  Sisyphus, 
both  at  one  time  attributed  to  Euripides  ;  but  he  is  too 
doctrinaire,  too  deficient  in  brilliant  idiomatic  ease,  for 
such  a  mistake  to  endure.  The  Pirithous  deals  with 
Heracles'  descent  into  Hades  to  rescue  Theseus  and  to 
demand  of  Pluto  Persephone's  hand  for  Pirithous.  Of 
this  astounding  story  we  find  little  trace  in  the  fragments, 
which  are  mostly  quasi -philosophical  dicta.  For  in- 
stance : — 

A  temper  sound  more  stable  is  than  law ; 
The  one  no  politician's  eloquence 
Can  warp,  but  law  by  tricks  of  cunning  words 
Full  often  is  corrupted  and  unhinged. 

In  strong  contrast  to  these  prosaic  lines  is  Critias' 
superb  apostrophe  to  the  Creator,  which  may  be  para- 
phrased thus  : — 

From  all  time,  O  Lord,  is  thy  being  ;  neither  is  there  any  that  saith, 
This  is  my  son. 

All  that  is  created,  lo,  thou  hast  woven  the  firmament  about  it ;  the 
heavens  revolve,  and  all  that  is  therein  spinneth  like  a  wheel. 

1  It  is  noteworthy  that  Socrates'  famous  "prophecy  of  Shakespeare" 
(Symposium,  223  D),  "one  who  can  write  comedy  can  write  tragedy  and 
•vice  versa,"  is  addressed  to  Agathon  and  Aristophanes  jointly. 

3  The  attribution  of  this  play  to  Critias  is  not  certain,  but  probable  ; 
it  is  accepted  by  Wilamowitz.  The  new  life  of  Euripides  by  Satyrus  (see 
above,  p.  1 8)  attributes  it  to  that  poet. 


30  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Thou  hast  girded  thyself  with  light ;  the  gloom  of  dusk  is  about  thee, 
even  as  a  garment  of  netted  fire. 

Stars  without  number  dance  around  thee  ;  they  cease  not,  they  move 
in  a  measure  through  thy  high  places. 

From  the  same  hymn  probably  comes  the  majestic  pas- 
sage which  tells  of  "  unwearied  Time  that  in  full  flood 
ever  begets  himself,  and  the  Great  Bear  and  the 
Less.  ..." 

In  apparent  contrast  to  this  tone  is  the  remarkable 
passage,  of  forty-two  lines,  from  the  Sisyphus.  It  is  a 
purely  rationalistic  account  of  religion.  First  human 
life  was  utterly  brutish  :  there  were  no  rewards  for 
righteousness,  no  punishment  of  evil-doers.  Then  law 
was  set  up,  that  justice  might  be  sovereign  ;  but  this 
device  only  added  furtiveness  to  sin.  Finally,  "some 
man  of  shrewdness  and  wisdom  .  .  .  introduced  re- 
ligion "  (or  "the  conception  of  God,"  TO  Oelov),  so  that 
even  in  secret  the  wicked  might  be  restrained  by  fear. 
The  contradiction  between  these  two  plays  is  illusory : 
Critias  combines  with  disbelief  in  the  personal  Greek 
gods  belief  in  an  impersonal  First  Cause.  It  is  too 
often  forgotten  that  among  the  "Thirty  Tyrants  "  were 
men  of  strong  religious  principles.  The  democratic 
writers  of  Athens  loved  to  depict  them  as  mercenary 
butchers,  but  it  is  plain  from  the  casual  testimony  of 
Lysias1  that  they  looked  upon  themselves  as  moral 
reformers.  "  They  said  that  it  was  their  business  to 
purge  the  city  of  wicked  men,  and  turn  the  rest  of  the 
citizens  to  righteousness  and  self-restraint."  Such  pas- 
sages read  like  quotations  from  men  who  would  in- 
augurate a  "  rule  of  the  saints,"  and  if  their  severities 
surpassed  those  of  the  English  Puritans,  they  were  them- 
selves outdone  by  the  cruelty  which  sternly  moral 
leaders  of  the  French  Revolution  not  only  condoned  but 
initiated.  Critias  was  the  Athenian  Robespierre.  But 
the  one  revolution  was  the  reverse  of  the  other.  The 
regime  of  the  Thirty  was  a  last  violent  effort  of  the 
Athenian  oligarchs  to  stem  the  tide  of  ochlocracy,  to 

1  Eratosthenes,  II. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     31 

induce  some  self-discipline  into  the  freedom  of  Athens. 
They  failed,  and  Critias  was  justified  on  the  field  of 
Chseronea. 

The  most  successful  tragic  playwright  of  the  fourth 
century  was  ASTYDAMAS,  whose  history  furnishes  good 
evidence  that  after  the  disappearance  of  Euripides 
and  Sophocles  the  Greek  genius  was  incapable  of 
carrying  tragedy  into  new  developments.  While  prose 
could  boast  such  names  as  Plato  and  Demosthenes, 
the  tragic  art  found  no  greater  exponent  than  this 
Astydamas,  of  whose  numerous  plays  nothing  is  left 
save  nine  odd  lines.  There  were,  moreover,  two 
Astydamantes,  father  and  son,  whose  works  (scarcely 
known  save  by  name)  it  is  difficult  to  distinguish.  But 
it  seems  that  it  was  the  son  whose  popularity  was  so 
great  as  to  win  him  fifteen  first  prizes  and  an  honour 
before  unknown.  His  Parthenopczus  won  such  applause 
in  340  B.C.  that  the  Athenians  set  up  a  brazen  statue 
of  the  playwright  in  the  theatre ;  it  was  not  till  ten 
years  later  that  the  orator  Lycurgus  persuaded  them 
to  accord  a  like  honour  to  the  three  Masters.  We 
learn  from  Aristotle l  that  Astydamas  altered  the  story 
of  Alcmaeon,  causing  him  to  slay  his  mother  in  ignor- 
ance ;  and  Plutarch 2  alludes  to  his  Hector  as  one 
of  the  greatest  plays.  He  was  nothing  more  than 
a  capable  writer  who  caught  the  taste  of  his  time,  and 
probably  owed  much  of  his  popularity  to  the  excellence 
of  his  actors. 

Only  one  fact  is  known  about  POLYIDUS  "  the 
sophist,"  but  that  is  sufficiently  impressive.  Aristotle 
twice3  takes  the  Recognition-scene  in  his  Iphigenia 
as  an  example,  and  in  the  second  instance  actually  com- 
pares the  work  of  Polyidus  with  one  of  Euripides' 
most  wonderful  successes — the  Recognition-scene  in 
the  Iphigenia  in  Tauris.  It  appears  that  as  Orestes 
was  led  away  to  slaughter  he  exclaimed  :  "  Ah  !  So  I 
was  fated,'  like  my  sister,  to  be  sacrificed."  This 

1  Poetic,  H53/J.  *De  Gloria  Atheniensium,  349  E. 

*  Poetic,  i455«,  b. 


32  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

catches  the  attention  of  Iphigenia  and  saves  his  life. 
Polyidus  here  undoubtedly  executed  a  brilliant  coup 
de  theatre. 

During  the  fourth  century  many  tragedians  wrote 
not  for  public  performance  but  for  readers.  Of  these 
avayvucrTLKol 1  the  most  celebrated  was  CH/EREMON,  of 
whom  sufficient  fragments  and  notices  survive  to  gitfe  a 
distinct  literary  portrait.  Comic  poets  ridiculed  his  pre- 
ciosity :  he  called  water  "  river's  body,"  ivy  "the  year's 
child,"  and  loved  word-play  :  npiv  yap  fypoveiv  cv 
Kara(f>pov€Lv  eTrtcrrao-at.2  But  though  a  sophisticated  at- 
tention to  style  led  him  into  such  frigid  mannerisms,  he 
can  express  ideas  with  a  brief  Euripidean  cogency  :  per- 
haps nothing  outside  the  work  of  the  great  masters  was 
more  often  quoted  in  antiquity  than  his  dictum  "  Human 
life  is  luck,  not  discretion  " — TV^T]  TO.  QVT)TUV  Trpdyi^aT1 , 
OVK  ev/3ovXta. 

The  only  technical  peculiarity  attributed  to  him 
is  the  play  Centaur,  if  play  it  was.  Athenaeus  calls 
it  a  "drama  in  many  metres,"3  while  Aristotle4  uses 
the  word  "rhapsody,"  implying  epic  quality.  It  may 
be  that  the  epic  or  narrative  manner  was  used  side 
by  side  with  the  dramatic  in  the  manner  of  Bunyan. 
Here  is  another  proof  that  by  the  time  of  Euripides 
tragedy  had  really  attained  its  full  development.  At- 
tempts at  new  departures  in  technique  are  all  abortive 
after  his  day. 

A  delightful  point  which  emerges  again  and  again 
is  Chaeremon's  passion  for  flowers.  From  Thyestes 
come  two  phrases — "  the  sheen  of  roses  mingled  with 
silver  lilies,"  and  "  strewing  around  the  children  of 
flowering  spring ' ' — which  indicate,  as  do  many  others, 
Chaeremon's  love  of  colour  and  sensuous  loveliness.  It 
was  his  desire  to  express  all  the  details  of  what  pleased 

1  Aristotle,  Rhetoric,  III,  12,  2  :  /Saora^oj/Ttu  8«  ot  avayvaxrriKoi,  ola» 
Xaiprjfjiw  •  (iKpiftijs  yap  Sxrntp  \oyoy pd<pos. 

2  "  You  know  how  to  feel  contempt  before  you  have  learnt  wisdom,"  or, 
to  reproduce  (however  badly)  the  play  upon  words,  "  You  practise  con- 
tempt before  using  contemplation  ". 

3  Athenaeus,  fr.  10  :  dpapz  n-oXv^erpov.  4  Poetic,  14476. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     83 

his  eye  that  led  him  into  preciosity  —  a  laboured  em- 
broidery which  recalls  Keats'  less  happy  efforts.  But 
he  can  go  beyond  mere  mannerism.  A  splendid  frag- 
ment of  his  CEneus  shows  Chseremon  at  his  best  : 
it  describes  the  half-nude  beauty  of  girls  sleeping  in 
the  moonlight.  One  can  hardly  believe  that  Chseremon 
belonged  to  the  fourth  century  and  was  studied  by 
Aristotle.  In  this  passage,  despite  its  voluptuous  dilet- 
tantism, there  is  a  sense  of  physical  beauty,  above  all  of 
colour  and  sensuous  detail,  which  was  unknown  since 
Pindar,  and  is  not  to  be  found  again,  even  in  Theo- 
critus, till  we  come  to  the  Greek  novelists.  In  one 
marvellous  sentence,  too,  he  passes  beyond  mere  pretti- 
ness  to  poetry,  expressing  with  perfect  mastery  the  truth 
that  the  sight  of  beauty  is  the  surest  incentive  to  chas- 
tity :  Ka£e7re<r<£  pay  'itf.ro  a>pa<s 


Love,  his  passion  quelled  by  awe, 
Printed  his  smiling  soul  on  all  he  saw. 

It  is  the  idea  which  Meredith  has  voiced  so  magically 
in  Love  in  the  Valley  :  — 

Love  that  so  desires  would  fain  keep  her  changeless, 
Fain  would  fling  the  net,  and  fain  have  her  free. 

That  Greek  literature  has  progressed  far  towards  the 
self-conscious  Alexandrian  search  for  charm  can  never- 
theless be  observed  if  we  compare  this  passage  from 
Chaeremon  with  the  analogous  description  in  Euripides' 
Bacchce^  (which  no  doubt  suggested  it).  There  the 
same  general  impression,  and  far  more  "atmosphere," 
is  given  with  no  voluptuous  details  :  0au/*'  iSetv 
ev/cooTuas  —  "a  marvel  of  grace  for  the  eye  to  behold" 
—is  his  nearest  approach  to  Chaeremon's  elaboration. 
If,  as  has  been  well  said,2  one  may  compare  the  three 
Masters  to  Giotto,  Raffaelle,  and  Correggio  respectively, 
then  Chaeremon  finds  his  parallel  among  the  French 
painters  ;  he  reminds  one  not  so  much  of  the  handsome 

1  vv.  677-774. 

2Symonds,  Studies  in  the  Greek  Poets,  II,  p.  26. 


34  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

sensuality  of  Boucher  as  of  that  more  seductive  simplesse 
in  which  Greuze  excelled. 

A  curious  figure  in  this  history  is  DIONYSIUS  the 
Elder,  tyrant  of  Syracuse  from  405-367  B.C.  Like 
Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia,  not  satisfied  with  politi- 
cal and  military  glory,  he  aspired  to  literary  triumphs. 
With  a  pathetic  hero-worship  he  purchased  and  treasured 
the  desk  of  ^schylus,  and  similar  objects  which  had 
belonged  to  Euripides,  hoping  (says  Lucian *)  to  gain 
inspiration  from  them.  The  prince  frequently  tried  his 
fortune  at  the  dramatic  contests  in  Athens,  but  for  long 
without  success,  and  naturally  became  a  butt  of  the  Attic 
wits,  who  particularly  relished  his  moral  aphorisms 
(such  as  "  tyranny  is  the  mother  of  injustice  "  !)  ;  Eubulus 
devoted  a  whole  comedy  to  his  tragic  confrere.  In 
367  B.C.  he  heard  with  joy  that  at  last  the  first  prize  had 
fallen  to  him  at  the  Lensea  for  Hector  s  Ransom ;  gossip 
said  that  his  death  in  the  same  year  was  due  to  the 
paroxysms  of  gratified  vanity.  Little  is  known  about  the 
contents  of  his  dramas,  but  we  hear  that  one  play  was 
an  attack  upon  the  philosopher  Plato.  In  other  works, 
too,  he  appears  to  have  discussed  his  personal  interests. 
Lucian  preserves  the  bald  verse  :— 

Doris,  Dionysius'  spouse,  has  passed  away, 

and  the  astonishing  remark  : — 

Alas  !  alas  !  a  useful  wife  I've  lost. 

But  one  may  be  misjudging  him.      Perhaps  by  "  useful  " 

(x/317crt'/jt1?1')  ^e  meant  "good"  (xP'na"J"1lv}  '  Dionysius 
had  a  curious  fad  for  using  words,  not  in  their  accepted 
sense,  but  according  to  real  or  fancied  etymology.2 

Ancient  critics  set  great  store  by  CARCINUS,  the  most 
distinguished  of  a  family  long  connected  with  the  theatre. 
One  hundred  and  sixty  plays  are  attributed  to  him,  and 
eleven  victories.  He  spent  some  time  at  the  court  of 

1  Adversus  Indoctos,  i  5. 

"Athenaeus  III,  98  D,  reports,  for  example,  that  he  called  a  javelin 
£oAAai>rtoi>  (properly  "  purse  "),  because  "  it  is  thrown  in  the  face  of  the  foe  " 
(tvavriov  /SoXXerat). 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     35 

the  younger  Dionysius,  the  Syracusan  tyrant,  and  his 
longest  fragment  deals  with  the  Sicilian  worship  of 
Demeter  and  Persephone.  We  possess  certain  interest- 
ing facts  about  his  plots.  Aristotle  l  as  an  instance  of 
the  first  type  of  Recognition  —  that  by  signs  —  mentions 
among  those  which  are  congenital  "the  stars  introduced 
by  Carcinus  in  his  Thyestes"  (evidently  birthmarks). 
More  striking  is  a  later  paragraph  :  2  "In  constructing 
the  plot  and  working  it  out  with  the  proper  diction,  the 
poet  should  place  the  scene,  as  far  as  possible,  before  his 
eyes.  .  .  .  The  need  of  such  a  rule  is  shown  by  the 
fault  found  in  Carcinus.  Amphiaraus  was  on  his  way 
from  the  temple.  This  fact  escaped  the  observation  of 
one  who  did  not  see  the  situation.  On  the  stage,  how- 
ever, the  piece  failed,  the  audience  being  offended  at  the 
oversight.  '  '  This  shows  incidentally  how  little  assistance 
an  ancient  dramatist  obtained  from  that  now  vital  col- 
laborator, the  rehearsal.  In  the  Medea*  of  Carcinus  the 
heroine,  unlike  the  Euripidean,  did  not  slay  her  children 
but  sent  them  away.  Their  disappearance  caused  the 
Corinthians  to  accuse  her  of  their  murder,  and  she 
defended  herself  by  an  ingenious  piece  of  rhetorical 
logic  :  "  Suppose  that  I  had  killed  them.  Then  it  would 
have  been  a  blunder  not  to  slay  their  father  Jason  also. 
This  you  know  I  have  not  done.  Hence  I  have  not 
murdered  my  children  either."  Just  as  Carcinus  there 
smoothed  away  what  was  felt  to  be  too  dreadful  in  Eu- 
ripides, so  in  CEdipus  he  appears  4  to  have  dealt  with  the 
improbabilities  which  cling  to  CEdipus  Tyrannus.  He 
excelled,  moreover,  in  the  portrayal  of  passion  :  Cercyon, 
struggling  with  horrified  grief  in  Carcinus'  A/ope,  is  cited 
by  Aristotle.5  The  sErope  too  had  sensational  success. 
That  bloodthirsty  savage  Alexander,  tyrant  of  Pherse, 
was  so  moved  by  the  emotion  wherewith  the  actor 
Theodorus  performed  his  part,  that  he  burst  into  tears.6 
Two  points  in  his  actual  fragments  strike  a  modern 


1  Poetic,  14S4&-  2  I4SS£'-  *  Rhetoric,  II,  14000. 

4  Ibid.  14176,  but  the  passage  is  obscure. 

6  Eth.  Nic.  1  1  50^,  10.  6  /Elian,  V.H.  XIV,  40. 


36  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

reader.  The  first  is  a  curious  flatness  of  style  noticeable 
in  the  one  fairly  long  passage  ;  every  word  seems  to  be  a 
second-best.  The  opening  lines  will  be  sufficient  :  — 


&T)T)fJ.Tp6s   7TOT*   UppTJTOV    KOplJV 

H\ovrtava  Kpv(piois  6.pird<rat  /3ouXcv/ia<ri, 
Svvai  T(  yaias  tls  p.(\a.fi.(paels  fjiv^ovs. 
Trodto  &(  fJU]T(p*  T)(pavtcrfi.fvr)s  Kopr/s 
fj.a<rrijp'  cn-(\Qfiv  irdvav  tv  Ki>K\qt  \66va. 


To  turn  from  this  dingy  verbiage  to  his  amazing 
brilliance  in  epigram  is  like  passing  from  an  auctioneer's 
showroom  into  a  lighthouse.  (The  difference,  we  note, 
is  between  narrative  and  "  rhetoric".)  Such  a  sentence 
as  ovScts  enawov  rj&ovals  eVnfcraro  ("no  man  ever  won 
praise  by  his  pleasures  ")  positively  bewilders  by  its 
glitter.  It  is  perhaps  not  absolutely  perfect:  its  miracu- 
lous ease  might  allow  a  careless  reader  to  pass  it  by  ; 
but  that  is  a  defect  which  Carcinus  shares  with  most 
masters  of  epigram,  notably  with  Terence  and  Congreve. 
More  substantial  is  the  wit  of  this  fragment  :  — 

vat'po)  <r'  6pu>v  (pdovovvra,  TOVT'  fl8u>s,  on 
a  p.6vov  8iKmov  Z>v  Troiel  (fidovos  • 
yap  avroxpTfiM  TOVS  n 


"  I  rejoice  to  see  that  you  harbour  spite,  for  I  know  that 
of  all  its  effects  there  is  one  that  is  just  —  it  straightway 
stings  those  who  cherish  it."  One  notices  the  exquisite 
skill  which  has  inserted  the  second  line,  serving  admir- 
ably to  prepare  for  and  throw  into  relief  the  vigorous 
third  verse. 

THEODECTES  of  Phaselis  enjoyed  a  brilliant  career. 
During  his  forty-one  years  he  was  a  pupil  of  Plato,  Iso- 
crates,  and  Aristotle,  obtained  great  distinction  as  an 
orator  (Cicero1  praises  him),  produced  fifty  plays,  and 
obtained  the  first  prize  at  eight  of  the  thirteen  contests 
in  which  he  competed.  Alexander  the  Great  decked 
his  statue  with  garlands  in  memory  of  the  days  when 
they  had  studied  together  under  Aristotle.  That 
philosopher  quotes  him  several  times,  and  in  particular 
pays  Theodectes  the  high  honour  of  coupling  him  with 

1  Orator^  51. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     37 

Sophocles  ;  the  examples  which  he  gives1  of  peripeteia 
are  the  (Edipus  Tyrannus  and  the  Lynceus  of  Theodectes. 
The  same  drama  is  used  2  to  exemplify  another  vital 
point,  the  difference  between  Complication  and  Denoue- 
ment. 

He  was  doubtless  a  brilliantly  able  man  and  a 
popular  dramatist  with  a  notable  talent  for  concocting 
plots.  But  all  that  we  can  now  see  in  his  remains  is 
a  feeble  copy  of  Euripides,  though  he  was,  to  be  sure, 
audacious  enough  to  place  Philoctetes'  wound  in  the 
hand  instead  of  the  foot — for  the  sake  of  gracefulness, 
one  may  imagine.  For  the  rest,  we  possess  a  curious 
speech  made  by  some  one  ignorant  of  letters,  who  de- 
scribes 3  as  a  picture  the  name  "  Theseus  " — this  idea  is 
taken  bodily  from  Euripides — and  sundry  sententious 
remarks,  one  of  which  surely  deserves  immortality  as 
reaching  the  limit  of  pompous  common-place  : — 

Widely  through  Greece  hath  this  tradition  spread 
O  aged  man,  and  ancient  is  the  saw  : 
The  hap  of  mortals  is  uncertain  ever. 

Mention  should  be  made  of  DIOGENES  and  CRATES 
the  philosophers,  who  wrote  plays  not  for  production, 
but  for  the  study,  as  propagandist  pamphlets.  They 
may  none  the  less  have  been  excellent  plays,  like  the 
Justice  of  Mr.  Galsworthy.  Very  little  remains  on  which 
an  opinion  can  be  founded.  One  vigorous  line  of 
Diogenes  catches  the  attention:  "  I  would  rather  have 
a  drop  of  luck  than  a  barrel  of  brains  ".* 

A  more  remarkable  dramatist  was  MOSCHION,  whose 
precise  importance  it  is  hard  to  estimate,  though  he  is 
deeply  interesting  to  the  historian  of  tragedy.  For  on 
the  one  hand,  he  was  probably  not  popular — nothing  is 
known  of  his  life,5  and  Stobseus  is  practically  the  only 
writer  who  quotes  him.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  the 

1  Poetic,  I4$za.  *  Ibid.  145 5*5. 

3  "  First  there  came  a  circle  with  a  dot  in  the  middle,"  etc. 

4  $eA<w  TV^IJS  (TTa\ayfj.6v  tj  (frpevtav  iridov. 

5  That  he  belongs  to  the  fourth  century  is  not  certain,  though  ex- 
tremely probable. 


38  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

one  Greek  poet  known  to  have  practised  definitely  the 
historical  type  of  drama.  Moschion  is  of  course  not 
alone  in  selecting  actual  events  for  his  theme.  Long 
before  his  day  Phrynichus  had  produced  his  Phcenissce 
and  The  Capture  of  Miletus >  ^schylus  his  Persa  ;  and 
his  contemporary  Theodectes  composed  a  tragedy 
Mausolus  in  glorification  of  the  deceased  king  of  Caria. 
But  all  four  were  pieces  d}  occasion.  Moschion  alone 
practised  genuine  historical  drama :  he  went  according 
to  custom  into  the  past  for  his  material,  but  chose  great 
events  of  real  history,  not  legend.1  His  Themistocles 
dealt  with  the  battle  of  Salamis  ;  we  possess  one  brief 
remnant  thereof,  in  which  (as  it  seems)  a  messenger 
compares  the  victory  of  the  small  Greek  force  to  the 
devastation  wrought  by  a  small  axe  in  a  great  pine- 
forest.  The  Men  of  Pherce  appears 2  to  have  depicted 
the  brutality  of  Alexander,  prince  of  Pherse,  who  refused 
burial  to  Polyphron. 

These  "  burial-passages  "  include  Moschion's  most 
remarkable  fragment,  a  fine  description  in  thirty-three 
lines  describing  the  rise  of  civilization.  The  versifica- 
tion is  undesirably  smooth — throughout  there  is  not  a 
single  resolved  foot.  Like  a  circumspect  rationalist, 
Moschion  offers  three  alternative  reasons,  favouring 
none,  for  the  progress  made  by  man :  some  great 
teacher  such  as  Prometheus,  the  Law  of  Nature 
(dz/ay/oy),  the  long  slow  experience  (rpiftij)  of  the  whole 
race.  His  style  here  is  vigorous  but  uneven  ;  after 
dignified  lines  which  somewhat  recall  ^schylus  we 
find  a  sudden  drop  to  bald  prose  :  6  S'  dcr^ev^s  ty  TO>V 
apeLvoixov  fiopd  :3  "the  weak  were  the  food  of  the 
strong  ". 

It  is  convenient  to  mention  here  a  remarkable 
satyric  drama,  produced  about  324  B.C.,  the  Agen*  of 

1  We  have  only  one  title  ( Telephus)  which  implies  a  legendary 
theme. 

a  Meineke  suggests  that  the  subject  is  an  incident  related  by  Xeno- 
phon,  Hellenica,  VI,  iv.  33,  34. 

3  He  might  at  least  have  written  rots  dpfi 

4  The  meaning  of  this  name  is  unknown. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     39 

which  seventeen  consecutive  lines  survive.  This  play 
was  produced  during  the  Dionysiac  festival  in  the  camp 
of  Alexander  on  the  banks  of  the  Hydaspes  or  Jhelum, 
in  the  Punjaub.  Its  subject  was  the  escapades  of 
Harpalus,  who  had  revolted  from  Alexander  and  fled 
to  Athens.  The  author  is  said  1  to  have  been  either 
Python  of  Catana  or  Byzantium,  or  the  Great  Alexander 
himself.  No  doubt  it  was  an  elaborate  "  squib  "  full  of 
racy  topical  allusions.  Were  it  not  that  Athenaeus  calls 
it  a  "  satyric  playlet"  2  we  might  take  the  fragment  as 
part  of  a  comedy.  But  about  this  time  satyric  drama 
tended  to  become  a  form  of  personal  attack — a  dramatic 
"  satire  ".  Thus  one  Mimnermus,  whose  date  is  un- 
known, wrote  a  play  against  doctors 3 ;  Lycophron  and 
Sositheus,  both  members  of  the  Alexandrian  "  Pleiad," 
attacked  individual  philosophers,  the  former  writing  a 
Menedemus  which  satirized  the  gluttony  and  drunken- 
ness of  the  amiable  founder  of  the  Eretrian  school, 
the  latter  ridiculing  the  disciples  whom  the  "  folly 
of  Cleanthes  "  drove  like  cattle — an  insult  which  the 
audience  resented  and  damned  the  play.4 

The  third  century  saw  a  great  efflorescence  of 
theatrical  activity  in  Alexandria.  Under  Ptolemy  II 
(285-247  B.C.),  that  city  became  the  centre  of  world- 
culture  as  it  already  was  of  commerce.  All  artistic 
forms  were  protected  and  rewarded  with  imperial 
liberality.  The  great  library  became  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  world,  and  the  Dionysiac  festivals  were 
performed  with  sedulous  magnificence.  Among  the 
many  writers  of  tragedy  seven  were  looked  on  as  form- 
ing a  class  by  themselves — the  famous  Pleiad  ("The 
Constellation  of  Seven  ").  Only  five  names  of  these 
are  certain — Philiscus,  Homerus,  Alexander,  Lycophron, 
and  Sositheus;  for  the  other  two  "chairs"  various 


Athenaeus  XIII,  595  F. 

2  He  uses  the  diminutive 

3  Kara  larpatv  (Stobaeus,  IO2,  3).     He  was  thus  a  precursor  of  Moliere 
and  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw. 

4  Diogenes  Laertius,  VII,  173. 


40  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

names  are  found  in  our  authorities  :  Sosiphanes, 
Dionysiades,  /Eantides,  Euphronius.  Nor  can  we  be 
sure  that  all  these  men  worked  at  Alexandria.1  That 
the  splendour  of  the  city  and  Ptolemy's  magnificent 
patronage  should  have  drawn  the  leading  men  of  art, 
letters,  and  science  to  the  world's  centre,  is  a  natural 
assumption  and  indeed  the  fact  :  Theocritus  the  idyllist, 
Euclid  the  geometer,  Callimachus  the  poet  and  scholar, 
certainly  lived  there.  Of  the  Pleiad,  only  three  are 
known  to  have  worked  in  Alexandria  :  Lycophron,  to 
whom  Ptolemy  entrusted  that  section  of  the  royal  library 
which  embraced  Comedy,  Alexander,  who  superin- 
tended Tragedy,  and  Philiscus  the  priest  of  Dionysus. 
Homerus  may  have  passed  all  his  career  in  Byzantium, 
which  later  possessed  a  statue  of  him,  and  Sositheus 
was  apparently  active  at  Athens. 

LYCOPHRON'S  Menedemus  has  already  been  mentioned. 
His  fame  now  rests  upon  the  extant  poem  Alexandra, 
in  high  repute  both  in  ancient  and  in  modern  times  for 
its  obscurity.  But  SOSITHEUS  is  the  most  interesting  of 
the  galaxy.  We  may  still  read  twenty-one  lines  from 
his  satyric  drama  Daphnis  or  Lityerses,  describing  with 
grim  vigour  the  ghoulish  harvester  Lityerses  who  made 
his  visitors  reap  with  him,  finally  beheading  them  and 
binding  up  the  corpses  in  sheaves.  Sositheus  made  his 
mark,  indeed,  less  in  tragedy  than  in  satyric  writing  : 
he  turned  from  the  tendency  of  his  day  which  made  this 
genre  a  form  of  satire,  and  went  back  to  the  antique 
manner.  SOSIPHANES,  finally,  deserves  mention  for  a 
remarkable  fragment  :  — 

2)  8v(TTV)(fls  p.fV   TToXXa,    TTCLVpa  8'   oA/3tOl 

/Sporoi,  Tt  (Tfp.vvvfcr6f  Tois  ff-ov<riais, 
As  (v  T'  (8atKf  <btyyos  fv  T  ad>ciXeTo: 

*          t.«         >  -  S.  <         »  I  '/I  ' 

T)V   O     (VTVXtjTC,    fJLTJOtV    OVTfS   €V0fQ)S 


wr   ovpava>  (povfrf,  TOV     f  nvpiov 
A.18r]v  irapfarSyr*  ov^  opart  ir\T)criov. 


"  O  mortal  men,  whose  misery  is  so  manifold,  whose  joys 
so  few,  why  plume  yourselves  on  power  which  one  day 

1  This  point  is  made  by  Bernhardy,  Grundriss  der  Gr.  Litteratur  II, 
ii.  p.  72. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     41 

gives  and  one  day  destroys  ?  If  ye  find  prosperity, 
straightway,  though  ye  are  naught,  your  pride  rises  high 
as  heaven,  and  ye  see  not  your  master  death  at  your 
elbow  " — a  curiously  close  parallel  with  the  celebrated 
outburst  in  Measure  for  Measure.  We  observe  the 
Euripidean  versification,  though  Sosiphanes  "  flourished  " 
two  centuries1  after  the  master's  birth,  and  though 
between  the  two,  in  men  like  Moschion,  Carcinus,  and 
Chaeremon,  we  find  distinct  flatness  of  versification. 
The  fourth-century  poets,  however  second-rate,  were 
still  working  with  originality  of  style :  Sosiphanes 
belongs  to  an  age  which  has  begun  not  so  much  to 
respect  as  to  worship  the  great  models.  He  sets  him- 
self to  copy  Euripides,  and  his  iambics  are  naturally 
"better"  than  Moschion's,  as  are  those  written  by 
numerous  able  scholars  of  our  own  day. 

After  the  era  of  the  Pleiad,  Greek  tragedy  for  us  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  comes  to  an  end.  New  dramas 
seem  to  have  been  produced  down  to  the  time  of  Hadrian, 
who  died  in  A.D.  138,  and  theatrical  entertainments  were 
immensely  popular  throughout  later  antiquity,  as  vase- 
paintings  show,  besides  countless  allusions  in  literature. 
B  ut  our  fragments  are  exceedingly  meagre.  One  tragedy 
has  been  preserved  by  its  subject — the  famous  Christus 
Patiens  (Xptcrro?  natr^cov),  which  portrayed  the  Pas- 
sion. It  is  the  longest  and  the  worst  of  all  Greek 
plays,  and  consists  largely  of  a  repellent  cento — snippets 
from  Euripides  pieced  together  and  eked  out  by  bad 
iambics  of  the  author's  own.  The  result  is  traditionally, 
but  wrongly,  attributed  to  Gregory  of  Nazianzus  (born 
probably  in  A.D.  330).  Its  only  value  is  that  it  is  often 
useful  in  determining  the  text  of  Euripides.  It  would 
>e  useless  to  enumerate  all  the  poetasters  of  these  later 
centuries  whose  names  are  recorded. 

In  this  chapter  we  have  constantly  referred  to  the 
Poetic  of  Aristotle,  and  it  will  be  well  at  this  point  to 

1  His  date  is  not,  however,  certain,  and  there  is  some  reason  to  assign 
his  floruit  to  the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great. 


42  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

summarize  his  view  of  the  nature,  parts,  and  aim  of 
tragedy.  Before  doing  so,  however,  we  must  be  clear 
upon  two  points  :  the  standpoint  of  his  criticism  and  the 
value  of  his  evidence.  It  was  long  the  habit  to  take  this 
work  as  a  kind  of  Bible  of  poetical  criticism,  to  accept 
with  blind  devotion  any  statements  made  therein,  or 
even  alleged l  to  be  made  therein,  as  constituting  rules 
for  all  playwrights  for  ever.  Now,  as  to  the  former 
point,  the  nature  of  his  criticism,  it  is  simply  to  explain 
how  good  tragedies  were  as  a  fact  written.  He  takes 
the  work  of  contemporary  and  earlier  playwrights,  and 
in  the  light  of  this,  together  with  his  own  strong  com- 
mon sense,  aesthetic  sensibility,  and  private  tempera- 
ment, tells  how  he  himself  (for  example)  would  write  a 
tragedy.  On  the  one  hand,  could  he  have  read  Macbeth 
then,  he  would  have  condemned  it ;  on  the  other,  could 
he  read  it  now  as  a  modern  man,  he  would  approve 
it.  As  to  the  second  point,  the  value  of  his  evidence, 
we  must  distinguish  carefully  between  the  facts  which 
he  reports  and  his  comment  thereon.  The  latter  we 
should  study  with  the  respect  due  to  his  vast  merits  ;  but 
he  is  not  infallible.  When,  for  instance,  he  writes  that 
"  even  a  woman  may  be  good,  and  also  a  slave  ;  though 
the  woman  may  be  said  to  be  an  inferior  being,  and  the 
slave  quite  worthless,"2  and  blames  Euripides  because 
"  Iphigenia  the  suppliant  in  no  way  resembles  her  later 
self,"8  we  shall  regard  him  less  as  helping  us  than  as 
dating  himself.  But  as  to  the  objective  facts  which  he 
records  he  must  be  looked  on  as  for  us  infallible.4  He 

1  The  most  amazing  example  is  that  of  the  "  Three  Unities  " — those 
of  Action,  Time,  and  Place — of  which  such  a  vast  amount  has  been  heard 
and  which  ruled  tyrannically  over  French  "  classical "  tragedy.  It  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe  that  Aristotle  never  mentions  the  "  Three  Unities  ".  On  the 
Unity  of  Action  he  has,  of  course,  much  to  say  ;  the  Unity  of  Time  is  dis- 
missed in  one  casual  sentence.  As  to  the  Unity  of  Place  there  is  not  a 
word.  (It  is  signally  violated  in  the  Eumenides  and  the  Ajax.) 

*  Poetic,  1454^. 

8  Ibid. 

4  See  Wilamowitz-Moellendorff's  magnificent  Einleitung  in  die 
griechischc  Tragodie,  pp.  48-  5 1  (e.g.  "nicht  mehr  Aristoteles  der  aesthetiker 
sondern  Aristoteles  der  historiker  ist  der  ausgangspunkt  unserer  be- 
trachtung  "  and  "  unser  fundament  ist  und  bleibt  was  in  der  poetik  steht "). 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     43 

lived  in  or  close  to  the  periods  of  which  he  writes  ;  he 
commanded  a  vast  array  of  documents  now  lost  to  us  ; 
he  was  strongly  desirous  of  ascertaining  the  facts  ;  his 
temperament  and  method  were  keenly  scientific,  his 
industry  prodigious.  We  may,  and  should,  discuss  his 
opinions  ;  his  facts  we  cannot  dispute.  The  reader  will 
be  able  to  appreciate  for  himself  the  statement  which 
follows. 

Aristotle's  definition  of  tragedy  runs  thus:  "  Tragedy, 
then,  is  an  imitation  of  an  action  that  is  serious,  complete, 
and  of  a  certain  magnitude  ;  in  language  embellished 
with  each  kind  of  artistic  ornament,  the  several  kinds 
being  found  in  separate  parts  of  the  play  ;  in  the  form 
of  action,  not  of  narrative  ;  through  pity  and  fear  effect- 
ing the  proper  purgation  of  these  emotions  V  Adequate 
discussion  of  this  celebrated  passage  is  here  impossible  ; 
only  two  points  can  be  made.  Firstly,  the  definition 
plainly  applies  to  Greek  Tragedy  alone  and  as  under- 
stood by  Aristotle  :  we  observe  the  omission  of  what 
seems  to  us  vital  —  the  fact  that  tragedy  depicts  the  col- 
lision of  opposing  principles  as  conveyed  by  the  collision 
of  personalities  —  and  the  insertion  of  Greek  peculiarities 
since,  as  he  goes  on  to  explain,  by  "  language  embel- 
lished" he  means  language  which  includes  song. 
Secondly,  the  famous  dictum  concerning  "purgation" 
(catharsis)  is  now  generally  understood  as  meaning,  not 
"  purification  "  or  "  edification  "  of  our  pity  and  fear,  but 
as  a  medical  metaphor  signifying  that  these  emotions 
are  purged  out  of  our  spirit. 

Further  light  on  the  nature  of  tragedy  he  gives  by 
comparing  it  with  three  other  classes  of  literature. 
"  Comedy  aims  at  representing  men  as  worse,  Tragedy 
as  better  than  in  actual  life."2  In  another  place  he 
contrasts  tragedy  with  history  :  "  It  is  not  the  function 

1  Poetic,  1449^  •'  f<rrti>  o\>v  TpaycaSta  fj-iprjcris  7rpd£(Ci>s  (rirovftaias  ical 
reXeiaj  fifyfdos  eyovoTjr,  f)8vcrp.(v<i>  Xoya>  ^wptf  e»caoT<a  ra>v  eiSaJi/  iv  rails  /iopt'otf, 
8pa>vTO>v  (cat  ov  81  dirayytXias,  81  (\tov  KOI  (po/Sov  irtpaivovaa  rrjv  r&tv  TOIOVTW 


J  14480. 


44  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

of  the  poet  to  relate  what  has  happened,  but  what  may 
happen — what  is  possible  according  to  the  law  of  proba- 
bility or  necessity.  The  poet  and  the  historian  differ 
not  by  writing  in  verse  or  in  prose.  .  .  .  The  true 
difference  is  that  one  relates  what  has  happened,  the 
other  what  may  happen.  Poetry,  therefore,  is  a  more 
philosophical  and  a  higher  thing  than  history  :  for  poetry 
tends  to  express  the  universal,  history  the  particular." 
Our  imperfect  text  of  the  treatise  ends  with  a  more 
elaborate  comparison  between  Tragedy  and  Epic,  where- 
in Aristotle  combats  the  contemporary  view2  that  "epic 
poetry  is  addressed  to  a  cultivated  audience,  who  do  not 
need  gesture ;  Tragedy  to  an  inferior  public.  Being 
then  unrefined,  it  is  evidently  the  lower  of  the  two." 
His  own  verdict  is  that,  since  tragedy  has  all  the  epic 
elements,  adds  to  these  music  and  scenic  effects,  shows 
vividness  in  reading  as  well  as  in  representation,  attains 
its  end  within  narrower  limits,  and  shows  greater  unity 
of  effect,  it  is  the  higher  art.3 

In  various  portions  of  the  Poetic  he  gives  us  the 
features  of  Tragedy,  following  three  independent  lines 
of  analysis  : — 

§  I.  On  the  aesthetic  line  he  discusses  the  elements 
of  a  tragedy  :  plot,  character,  thought,  diction,  scenery, 
and  song.  Of  the  last  three  he  has  little  to  say.  But 
on  one  of  them  he  makes  an  interesting  remark. 
"  Third  in  order  is  Thought — that  is,  the  faculty  of 
saying  what  is  possible  and  pertinent  in  given  cir- 
cumstances. .  .  .  The  older  poets  made  their  char- 
acters speak  the  language  of  civic  life  ;  the  poets  of  our 
time,  the  language  of  the  rhetoricians." 4  This  prophesies 
from  afar  of  Seneca  and  his  like.  As  for  character,  it 
must  be  good,  appropriate,  true  to  life,  and  consistent. 

Concerning  Plot,  which  he  rightly  calls  "  the  soul 
of  a  tragedy," 6  Aristotle  is  of  course  far  more  copious. 
The  salient  points  alone  can  be  set  down  here  : — 

1  145 1«,  b.  2  14620. 

3  14623,  b.     (The  phrasing  in  the  summary  above  is  borrowed  from 
Butcher.)     See  further  1449^. 

4  1450**.  8 1 4500. 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     45 

(a)  "  The   proper   magnitude  is   comprised   within 
such  limits,  that  the  sequence  of  events,  according  to 
the   law   of  probability    or   necessity,   will    admit  of  a 
change  from  bad  fortune  to  good,  or  from  good  fortune 
to  bad."1 

(b)  "  The   plot  .  .  .  must  imitate  one   action  and 
that   a  whole,  the  structural  union  of  the  parts  being 
such  that  if  anyone  of  them  is  displaced  or  removed, 
the  whole  will  be  disjointed  and  disturbed." 2     A  tragedy 
must   be   an  organism.      It   therefore  follows  that  "of 
all    plots  and  actions  the   episodic  are  the  worst  .  .  . 
in   which   the   episodes   or   acts  succeed    one   another 
without   probable   or    necessary   sequence  ",3       He    is 
recommending  the  "  Unity  of  Action  ". 

(c)  "  Plots  are  either  Simple  or  Complex.  .    .  .   An 
action  ...   I  call  Simple,  when  the  change  of  fortune 
takes  place  without  Reversal  (or  Recoil)  of  the  Action 
and  without  Recognition.     A   Complex  Action  is  one 
in  which  the  change  is  accompanied  by  such  Reversal, 
or   by  Recognition,  or  by  both."4     Reversal  we  shall 
meet   again.       By    Recognition    Aristotle   means    not 
merely    such    Recognition-scenes    as    we  find   in    the 
crisis  of  the  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  (though  such  are  the 
best)   but    "  a   change  from  ignorance    to  knowledge, 
producing  love  or  hate  between  the  persons  destined 
by  the  poet  for  good  or  bad  fortune  ".5 

(d)  "Two  parts,  then,  of  the  plot — Reversal   and 
Recognition — turn    upon    surprises.      A    third   part    is 
the  Tragic    Incident.     The  Tragic  Incident  is  a   dis- 
tinctive or  painful  action,  such  as  death  on  the  stage, 
bodily  agony,  wounds,  and  the  like."6     In  the  words 
"  death  on  the  stage  " — or  "  before  the  audience  "  (the 
phrase7    has    no   bearing   on    the    stage-controversy), 
Aristotle  casually  but   completely  overthrows   another 
critical   convention,    that    in   ancient    Tragedy   deaths 
take  place  only  "behind  the  scenes".       In  the  extant 

1 14510.  a  14510. 

4 14520.  6 14520. 

7  01  tv  Tw  <^>ai/epo>  Odvarot. 


46  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

plays,  not  only  do  Alcestis  and  Hippolytus  "die  on 
the  stage  "  in  their  litters,  but  Ajax  falls  upon  his 
sword. 

(e)  The  best  subject  of  Tragedy  is  the  change  from 
good  fortune  to  bad  in  the  life  of  some  eminent  man 
not   conspicuously   good  and   just,    whose   misfortune, 
however,  is  due  not  to  wickedness  but  to  some  error 
or  weakness.1 

(f)  The  poet  "  may  not  indeed  destroy  the  frame- 
work  of  the   received  legends  —  the  fact,  for  instance, 
that  Clytaemnestra  was  slain  by  Orestes  and  Eriphyle 
by  Alcmseon  —  but  he  ought  to  show  invention  of  his 
own,   and   skilfully  handle   the   traditional    material  ".2 
This  injunction  was  obeyed  beforehand  by  all  the  three 
Athenian   masters  ;    it   is   especially   important   to   re- 
member it  when  studying  Euripides. 

(g)  "The  unravelling  of  the  plot  .  .  .  must  arise  out 
of  the  plot  itself  ;  it  must  not  be  brought  about  by  the 
Deus  ex  Machina,  as  in  the  Medea.  .  .  .  The  Deus  ex 
Machina  should  be  employed  only  for  events  external 
to   the   drama  —  for   antecedent   or  subsequent  events, 
which   lie   beyond  the   range  of  human  knowledge."3 
This  vital  criticism  will  be  considered  later,  when  we 
discuss  the  Pkiloctetes*  of  Sophocles  and  the  Euripidean 
drama.5 

(A)  "  Within  the  action  there  must  be  nothing  ir- 
rational. If  the  irrational  cannot  be  excluded,  it  should 
be  outside  the  scope  of  the  tragedy.  Such  is  the 
irrational  element  in  the  CEdipus  of  Sophocles."  e 
Aristotle  means  certain  strange  data  in  the  CEdipus 
Tyrannus  —  the  fact  that  neither  CEdipus  nor  Jocasta 
has  learnt  earlier  about  the  past,  and  so  forth. 

§  II.  On  the  purely  literary  line  he  tells  us  the 
parts  :  —  7 


8  1453*-  s  I454«, 

4pp.  163-5^.  'PR-  BIB'S-  "  1454**, 

7  1452^  ;  €(TTIV  8(  irpo\oyos  p.tv  ptpos  oAov  Tpay<p8iat  TO  irp6 
irap68ov,  firticroSiov  8f  pfpos  o\ov  Tpay<a8ias  ri>  ptraf-v  oXuv  ^opKcwv  /icXcov, 
f£o8os  8(  p.(pos  oAof  rpayu8ias  p.(8'  o  OVK  (cm  \opov  fifXoy,  %opiKOv  Se  irapo&os 
TI  irparrrj  At'^t?  0X17  ^opov,  OTatrt/iov  8f  /xtXor  %opov  TO  ilvtv  dvairaioTOV  nal 
KOIVOS  \opov  <a\  TO»V  airb 


LITERARY  HISTORY  OF  GREEK  TRAGEDY     47 

(a)  "  The  Prologos  is  that  entire  part  of  a  tragedy 
which  precedes  the  Parodos  of  the  chorus  "  (see  below 
for  the  Parodos).  Thus  a  drama  may  have  no  "  pro- 
logos  "  at  all,  for  example  the  Persce.  The  implications 
of  our  word  "prologue"  are  derived  from  the  practice 
of  Euripides,  who  is  fond  of  giving  in  his  "  prologos  " 
an  account  of  events  which  have  led  up  to  the  action 
about  to  be  displayed. 

(6)  "The  Episode  is  that  entire  part  of  a  tragedy 
which  is  between  complete  choric  songs."  "  Episodes" 
then  are  what  we  call  "acts":  the  name  has  already 
been  explained.1 

(c]  "  The  Exodos  is  that  entire  part  of  a  tragedy 
which  has  no  choric  song  after  it."     The  few  anapaests 
which  close  most  tragedies  are  not  "choric  songs" — 
they  were  performed  in  recitative.     Thus  the  Exodos 
is  simply  the  last  act. 

(d)  "  Of  the  choric  part  the  Parodos  is  the  first  un- 
divided utterance  of  the   chorus :   the   Stasimon   is   a 
choric  ode  without  anapaests  or  trochees :  the  Commos 
is  a  joint  lamentation  of  chorus  and  actors."     It  will  be 
seen   later 2  that   by   excluding   trochees   he   probably 
means  the  trochaic  tetrameter  as  seen  in  dialogue ;  lyric 
trochees  are  very  common. 

§  III.  On  the  strictly  dramatic  line  he  tells  us  the 
stages  of  structural  development. 

(a)  "  Every  tragedy  falls  into  two  parts — Complica- 
tion and  Unravelling  (or  Denouement).  ...  By  the 
Complication  I  mean  all  that  comes  between  the  begin- 
ning of  the  action  and  the  part  which  marks  the  turn- 
ing-point to  good  or  bad  fortune.  The  Unravelling  is 
that  which  comes  between  the  beginning  of  the  change 
and  the  end."3 

(6)  "  Reversal  (or  Recoil,  Peripeteia)  is  a  change 
by  which  a  train  of  action  produces  the  opposite  of  the 
effect  intended,  subject  always  to  our  rule  of  probability 
or  necessity.  Thus  in  the  CEdipus,  the  messenger 

Jp.  4.  2  Chap.  VI. 


48  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

comes  to  cheer  CEdipus  and  free  him  from  his  alarms 
about  his  mother,  but,  by  revealing  who  he  is,  he  pro- 
duces the  opposite  effect." 

Much  might  be  written  on  this  analysis  of  dramatic 
structure.  One  remark  at  least  must  be  made.  It  is 
not  plain  how  much  importance  Aristotle  allots  to  the 
Recoil  or  Peripeteia.  We  have  seen  that  he  did  not 
regard  it  as  indispensable.  At  the  most  he  seems  to 
think  it  a  striking  way  of  starting  the  denouement.  It 
is  better  to  look  upon  it,  and  the  action  which  leads  up 
to  it,  as  a  separate  part  of  the  drama — and  it  may  be 
argued  that  every  tragedy,  if  not  every  comedy,  has  a 
Peripeteia — to  form,  in  fact,  that  middle  stage  which 
elsewhere 2  in  the  Poetic  he  mentions  as  necessary. 

1 1452a.  '  1450^. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  GREEK  THEATRE  AND  THE  PRODUCTION 
OF  PLAYS 

I.  THE  OCCASIONS  OF  PERFORMANCE 

GREEK  drama  was  looked  upon  not  only  as  a 
form  of  entertainment  and  culture,  but  as  an 
act  of  worship  offered  to  the  god  Dionysus. 
It  was,  in  consequence,  restricted  to  his  festivals  ;  per- 
formances of  a  quite  secular  character  are  unknown. 
Three  Attic  festivals  are  connected  with  the  tragic 
drama :  the  City  Dionysia,  the  Lensea,  the  Rural 
Dionysia.  The  City  or  Great  Dionysia  were  the  most 
splendid  of  the  three,  held  in  the  precinct  of  Dionysus 
Eleuthereus  on  the  south-eastern  slope  of  the  Acropolis, 
where  the  ruined  theatre  still  lies.  Tragedies,  comedies, 
and  dithyrambs  were  performed,  but  of  these  tragedy 
was  the  most  important.  The  time  was  the  month  of 
Elaphebolion  (March  to  April).  The  Lensea  or 
"  Wine- Press  Festival "  which  occurred  in  Gamelion 
(January  to  February)  was  the  great  occasion  for 
comedy,  though  tragedies  were  also  to  be  seen.  It  was 
held  at  first  in  the  Lenseon,  a  sacred  enclosure,  the  site 
of  which  is  still  uncertain,  later  in  the  same  theatre  as 
tragedy.  The  Rural  Dionysia  fell  in  Poseideon  (De- 
cember to  January),  and  were  celebrated  by  the  various 
Attic  townships,  especially  the  Peiraeus  ;  most  of  the 
dramas  performed  were  probably  such  as  had  been  suc- 
cessful in  Athens  itself ;  companies  of  actors  travelled 
about  the  country  for  this  purpose. 

Of  these  three  celebrations  the  City  Dionysia  were 

4  49 


50  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

the  most  important  for  tragedy.  The  tyrant  Pisistratus 
greatly  increased  the  splendour  of  this  festival  and 
instituted  the  tragic  contest.  Each  year  during  the  fifth 
century  three  tragedians  submitted  each  a  tetralogy,  and 
five  comedians  one  play  apiece.  Tragedies  were  given 
in  the  mornings,  comedies  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
celebration  continued  for  at  least  five  days. 

II.  THE  BUILDINGS 

Since  the  performance  was  a  state-function,  the 
whole  nation  was  theoretically  expected  to  be  present, 
and  in  point  of  fact  enormous  audiences  attended : 
the  great  theatre  accommodated  perhaps  30,000  l  spec- 
tators. This  fact  governs  the  nature  of  the  whole 
presentation.  The  theatre  could  not  be  roofed,  and  the 
acting  therefore  differed  greatly  from  that  customary 
in  modern  buildings. 

A  Greek  theatre  consisted  of  three  parts — the  audi- 
torium, the  orchestra,  and  the  "  stage-buildings  ".  The 
heart  of  the  whole  is  the  orchestra  or  "  dancing-ground  " 
(opXyo-Tpa)  upon  which  the  chorus,  throughout  the 
action,  were  stationed — a  circular  area  of  beaten  earth, 
later  paved  with  marble.  Beside  the  altar  in  this 
orchestra  stood,  in  the  earliest  days  of  the  theatre,  the 
sacrificial  table  upon  which  the  single  actor  mounted. 
This  table  in  the  fixed  theatre  is  the  descendant  of  the 
waggon  from  which  the  peripatetic  actor  of  Thespis 
delivered  his  lines.  In  addition  to  the  celebrants  the 
passive  worshippers  were  needed — the  audience.  There- 
fore the  orchestra  was  placed  at  the  bottom  of  a  slope  ; 
and  the  spectators  stood  or  sat  on  the  higher  ground. 
On  the  farther  side  rose  the  "stage-buildings,"  what- 
ever from  time  to  time  they  were.  The  general  plan, 
then,  of  any  Greek  theatre  was  this  :— 

1  Plato  (Symposium,  175  E)  makes  Socrates  congratulate  Agathon  on 
his  success  in  the  presence  of  "more  than  30,000  Greeks".  Modern 
archaeologists,  by  statistics  based  on  the  seating-accommodation,  would 
reduce  this  figure  to  1 7,000. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    51 


A  is  the  circular  orchestra,  B  the  altar  (^v/ieXT/)  of  Diony- 
sus which  invariably  stood  in  the  middle  of  it.  C  repre- 
sents the  "  stage-buildings " ;  D,  E,  F,  are  the  doors 
which  led  from  the  building  to  the  open  air.  The  build- 
ing usually  projected  into  side-wings  (G,  G),  called 
irapaarKTJvia.  H,  H,  are  the  passage-ways  (-n-apoSoi),  by 
which  the  chorus  generally  entered  the  orchestra,  and 
by  which  the  audience  always  made  its  way  to  the  seats. 
J,  J,  J,  is  the  auditorium,  a  vast  horseshoe-shaped  space 
rising  up  a  hillside  from  the  orchestra,  and  filled  with 
benches.  This  space  was  intersected  by  gangways,1 
K,  K,  L,  L,  etc.,  called,  perhaps,  /cXi'/xaKe?;  the  areas  M, 
M,  N,  N,  etc.,  so  formed,  had  the  name  "  pegs  "  (Ke/>/a8es). 
In  most  theatres  a  longitudinal  gallery  O,  O,  O,  was 
made  for  further  convenience  in  getting  to  the  seats. 
In  the  strictly  Greek  type  the  front  line  of  "  stage-build- 
ings" never  encroached  on  the  circle  of  the  orchestra. 
But  these  theatres  were  used  in  Roman  times  also,  and 
altered  to  suit  certain  needs.  The  front  of  C  was 
thrown  forward  so  that  it  cut  into  the  orchestra  and 
obliterated  the  passages  H,  H.  To  replace  these, 

1  There  are  fourteen  of  these  at  Athens. 


52  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

entrances  were  tunnelled  through  the  auditorium.  Thus 
at  Athens  the  orchestra  is  now  only  little  more  than  a 
semicircle,  though  amid  the  ruins  of  the  "stage-build- 
ings "  can  still  be  seen  a  few  feet  of  the  kerbstone  which 
surrounded  the  original  dancing  floor — the  only  surviving 
remnants  of  the  yEschylean  theatre  ;  this  masonry  shows 
that  the  diameter  of  the  whole  was  about  90  feet. 

The  "stage-buildings,"  as  we  have  called  them  for 
convenience,  require  a  longer  discussion.  Originally 
there  stood  in  that  place  only  a  tent,  called  scene  (o-Krjvij), 
which  took  no  part  in  the  theatrical  illusion,  but  was  used 
by  the  one  actor  simply  as  a  dressing-room.  Soon,  no 
doubt,  came  the  important  advance  of  employing  it  as 
"  scenery  " — the  tent  of  Agamemnon  before  Troy,  for  ex- 
ample. Later  a  wooden  booth  was  erected,  and 
Sophocles'  invention  of  scene-painting — that  is,  of  con- 
cealing this  booth  with  canvas  to  represent  whatever 
place  or  building  was  needed — added  enormously  to  the 
playwright's  resources.  This  booth  was  afterwards  built 
of  stone  and  became  more  and  more  elaborate  ;  Roman 
"  stage-buildings  "  survive  which  are  admirable  pieces  of 
dignified  architecture.  The  building  of  course  contained 
dressing-rooms  and  property-rooms.  There  were  doors 
at  the  narrow  ends.  The  front  of  the  building  was 
pierced  by  three,  later  by  five,  doors. 

Upon  what  did  these  doors  open  ?  Was  there  a  stage 
in  the  Greek  theatre  ?  This  problem  has  aroused  more 
discussion  than  any  other  in  Greek  scholarship  save  the 
"  Homeric  Question  ".  That  all  theatres  possessed  a 
stage  (Xoyetov)  in  Roman  times  is  certain  ;  the  Athenian 
building — which  in  its  present  condition  dates  from  the 
alterations  made  by  Phsedrus  in  the  third  century 
after  Christ — -shows  quite  obviously  the  front  wall  of  a 
stage  about  4^  feet  high.  But  did  the  dramatists  of 
the  fifth  and  fourth  centuries  before  Christ  write  for  a 
theatre  with  a  stage  or  not  ?  There  is  a  good  deal  of 
prima-facie  evidence  for  a  stage,  and  a  good  deal  to  show 
that  the  actors  moved  to  and  fro  on  that  segment  of  the 
orchestra  nearest  to  the  booth.  That  is,  the  question 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    53 

lies  between  acting  on  top  of  the  proscenium  (or  deco- 
rated wall  joining  the  faces  of  the  parascenia  G,  G)  and 
acting  in  front  of  it.  A  brief  resume"^-  of  the  evidence  is 
all  that  can  be  attempted  here.  It  is  confined  to  the 
consideration  of  the  fifth  and  fourth  centuries  B.C.,  to 
which  belongs  practically  all  the  extant  work.  For  the 
period  after  300  B.C.  the  use  of  a  stage  seems  indisput- 
able. 

A.  ARGUMENTS  FOR  A  STAGE 

§  i.  A  High  Stage. — Vitruvius,  the  Roman  architect, 
who  wrote  at  the  end  of  the  first  century  B.C.,  in  his 
directions  for  building  a  Greek  theatre  says  :  "  Among 
the  Greeks  the  orchestra  is  wider,  the  back  scene  is 
farther  from  the  audience,  and  the  stage  is  narrower.2 
This  latter  they  call  logeion  (speaking-place),  because  the 
actors  of  tragedy  and  comedy  perform  there  close  to  the 
back  scene,  while  the  other  artistes  play  in  the  ambit  of 
the  orchestra,  wherefore  the  two  classes  of  performer  are 
called  sccenici  and  thymelici  respectively."  [Literally, 
"  those  connected  with  the  booth  "  and  "  those  connected 
with  the  central  altar  ".]  "  This  logeion  should  be  not  less 
than  10,  and  not  more  than  12,  feet  in  height."3  This, 
says  Dorpfeld,  applies  to  the  Greek  theatre  of  Vitruvius' 
own  time,  but  has  been  extended  by  modern  writers  to 
the  fifth  century.  Supposing,  however,  that  Vitruvius 
was  thinking  of  the  fifth  century,  then  : — 

(a]  The  stage  is  too  narrow  for  performances,  viz. 
2*50   to  3    metres,  from   which   i   metre   must  be  sub- 
tracted for  the  background.     The  remaining  space  is 
not  enough  for  actors  and  mutes,  not  to  mention  any 
combined  action  of  players  and  chorus. 

(b]  It  is  also  too  high.     Many  passages  in  the  plays 

1  This    account   is   based   on   Dorpfeld   (Das  griechische    Theater, 
Abschnitt  VII)  who  believes  there  was  no  stage,  and  on  Haigh  (Attic 
Theatre*,  edited  by  Mr.  Pickard-Cambridge,  Chap.  Ill)  who  believes 
there  was  a  stage. 

2  That  is,  shorter,  viewed  from  left  to  right  by  the  spectators.     The 
depth  of  the  Vitruvian  stage  was  10  feet.  *  Vitruvius  V,  vii.  3-4, 


54  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

show  that  chorus  and  actors  are  on  the  same  level ;  in 
all  these  cases  the  chorus  would  have  to  mount  steps,  or 
the  actors  descend.  This  is  absurdly  awkward  ;  nor  is 
there  evidence  for  steps.  An  attempt  has  been  made 1  to 
meet  the  difficulties  by  the  assumption  of  another  plat- 
form about  half  the  height  of  the  stage,  erected  on  the 
orchestra  for  the  chorus.  But  the  various  objections  to 
such  a  subsidiary  platform  are  so  strong  that  it  is  no 
longer  believed  in.  With  it,  however  disappears  the 
only  way  by  which  plays  with  a  chorus  could  be  per- 
formed on  the  high  stage  of  Vitruvius. 

§  2.  A  Low  Stage. — Many  scholars,  abandoning 
Vitruvius  as  evidence  for  the  fifth  century,  postulate  a 
low  stage.  Their  arguments  are  : — 2 

(a)  Aristotle  in  the  fourth  century  calls  the  songs  of 
the  actors  TO,  euro  1-779  crKrjvjjs,  and  says  that  the  actor 
performed  eVl  rqs  o-Krjvrjs,  phrases  which  seem  to  mean 
"  from  the  stage "  and  "  on  the  stage "  respectively. 
And  though  Dorpfeld  would  take  o-Kyvij  as  "  back- 
ground" (not  "stage")  translating  Aristotle's  phrases 
by  "  from  the  background"  and  "at  the  background," 
there  remains  the  difficulty  that  Aristotle  plainly  thinks 
of  actors  and  chorus  as  occupying  quite  distinct  stations, 
which  scarcely  suggests  that  they  move  on  contiguous 
portions  of  the  same  ground. 

(6)  The  side-wings  or  parascenia  must  have  been 
meant  to  enclose  a  stage.  What  else  could  have  been 
their  use  ? 

(c]  There  are  five  phrases  used  by  Aristophanes. 
Three  times3  an  actor,  on  approaching  other  actors,  is 
said  to  "  come  up  "  ;  twice  4  he  is  said  to  "  go  down  ". 
Nothing  in  the  context  implies  raised  ground  as  needed 
by  the  drama,  so  that  we  seem  forced  to  refer  these 
expressions  to  the  visible  stage  itself.  Dorpfeld  and 
others  would  translate  these  two  verbs  by  "  come  here" 


1  By  Wieseler  and  others. 

"Haigh3,  pp.  165-74. 

s  avaftaiw :  Knights,  148;  Acharnians,  732;  Wasps 

S-f»ro/3atV«* :  Eccles,  1151  ;   Wasps ;  1514. 


I342- 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    55 

and  "  go  away  "  ;  but  there  is  no  evidence  for  these 
meaning's. 

(d)  The  existing  plays  throw  incidental  light  on  the 
problem  : — 

(i)  Certain  characters l  complain  of  the  steepness  of 
their  path  as  they  first  come  before  the  audience.  Do 
they  not  refer  to  an  actual  ascent  from  orchestra  to 
stage  ? 

(ii)  Ghosts  sometimes  appear.  How  can  they  have 
ascended  out  of  "  the  ground  "  unless  action  took  place 
on  a  raised  area  ?  This  argument  is,  however,  not 
strong.  In  later  theatres  such  spectres  did  rise  from 
below.  But  in  the  fifth  century  they  may  well  have 
walked  in. 

(iii)  A  more  striking2  argument  is  that  on  several 
occasions  the  chorus,  though  it  has  excellent  reason  to 
enter  the  back  scene,  remains  inert.  In  the  Agam- 
emnon the  elders  talk  of  rushing  to  the  king's  aid  ;  a 
similar  thing  happens  in  the  Medea  ;  there  are  a  number 
of  such  strange  features.  The  inference  is  that  there 
was  a  stage,  to  mount  which  would  have  appeared  odd. 

(iv)  A  stage  was  needed  to  make  the  actors  visible, 
instead  of  being  hidden  by  the  chorus.3  But,  though 
there  is  no  evidence  that  the  chorus  grouped  themselves 
about  the  orchestra  (as  in  the  performances  at  Bradfield 
College),  and  they  apparently  stood  in  rows  facing  the 
actors,  they  could  have  been  placed  far  forward  enough 
to  enable  all  to  see  the  actors.  Anyone  who  has  visited 
a  circus  will  appreciate  this. 

(v)  Plato4   remarks  that    Agathon  and   his   actors 

1  Euripides,  Ion,  727,  Electra,  4  sg.,  Here.  Fur.  119.  As  Haigh  (3rd 
ed.,  p.  167)  points  out,  "  in  the  last  passage  it  is  the  chorus  which  makes 
the  complaint ;  so  that  in  this  case,  if  there  was  iany  visible  ascent,  it  can- 
not have  been  the  ascent  to  the  stage  ". 

a  This  is  a  strong  and  favourite  argument  for  the  stage  ;  when  Haigh 
(3rd  ed.,  p.  168)  denies  this  because  "a  sufficient  reason  is  ...  the  fact 
that,  if  they  had  gone  into  the  palace,  the  scene  of  action  would  have  been 
left  empty  for  the  time  being,"  he  forgets  that  such  a  departure  of  the 
chorus  is  quite  possible.  It  occurs  in  Eumenides,  Ajax,  Alcestis,  and 
Helena,  not  to  mention  Comedy. 

3  Haigh  •"*,  p.  1 70  sq,  *  Symposium,  \  94  B, 


56  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

appeared  on  an  oKptySas,  a  "  platform  ".  But  the  word 
suggests  a  slight  structure  :  Dorpfeld  objects  that  this 
appearance  was  probably  in  the  Odeum,  or  Music  Hall, 
not  the  Theatre  of  Dionysus  ;  if  it  was  in  the  theatre, 
the  passage  rather  tells  against  a  stage,  for  a  temporary 
platform  would  not  have  been  used  if  there  was  a 
stage. 

(vi)  Horace l  says  that  "  .^Eschylus  gave  his  modest 
stage  a  floor  of  beams  "  or  "  gave  the  stage  a  floor  of 
moderate-sized  beams  ".  Dorpfeld  alleges  (without  evi- 
dence) that  pulpitum  (translated  "stage"  in  the  last 
sentence)  may  mean  "booth,"  and  suggests  that  the 
poet  assumes  a  stage  as  matter  of  course  :  he  is  mark- 
ing the  advance  made  by  ^schylus  upon  Thespis, 
who  (according  to  Horace  himself),  performed  his  plays 
upon  a  waggon.  But  the  proper  answer  is  surely  that 
Horace  is  regularly  unreliable  when  he  deals  with  ques- 
tions of  Greek  scholarship,  and  that  he  is  no  doubt 
arbitrarily  combining  his  knowledge  of  contemporary 
Greek  theatres  with  his  knowledge  that  ^Eschylus  ad- 
vanced in  theatrical  matters  beyond  Thespis. 

Such  are  the  main  arguments  in  favour  of  a  stage  in 
the  fifth  and  fourth  centuries  before  Christ. 

B.  ARGUMENTS  AGAINST  A  STAGE 

(i)  The  evidence  of  the  extant  dramas.  This, 
already  adduced  by  many  to  prove  that  a  stage  was 
used,  is  taken  by  Dorpfeld2  as  "showing  unmistakably 
that  no  separation  existed  between  chorus  and  actors, 
that  on  the  contrary  both  played  on  the  same  area  ". 
He  refers  to  action  where  people  pass  between  house 
and  orchestra  with  no  apparent  difficulty  or  hesitation. 
The  chorus  enter  from  the  "  palace  "  in  the  Choephoros, 
the  Eumenides,  and  Euripides'  Phaethon ;  the  chorus 
of  huntsmen  enter  it  in  the  Hippolytus.  There  are 
other  probable  or  possible  instances.  Particularly  note- 

1  Ars  Poetica,  278  :  jEschylus  et  jnodicjs  ipstravit  pulpita  tignis, 
8  Pas  Gr.  Theater,  p.  350, 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    57 

worthy  is  the  fact  that  in  Helena  the  chorus  in  the 
midst  of  the  play  enter  the  building,  and  later  reappear 
from  it. 

(ii)  The  tradition  in  later  writers.  It  is  true,  says 
Dorpfeld,  that  we  have  no  express  assertion  that  there 
was  no  stage — it  never  occurred  to  the  older  writers 
to  say  so,  for  they  knew  of  no  such  thing.  The  later 
writers  imply  that  there  was  none.  Timaeus,1  com- 
menting on  6/c/3i/3ag,  says  :  "  for  there  was  not  yet  a 
thymele" .  Thymele  there  means  "stage".  Several 
late  writers  tell  us  that  the  Roman  logeion  ("speaking- 
place"  or  (< stage")  was  once  called  "orchestra"  :  this 
supports  the  view  that  the  stage  is  part  of  the  old 
orchestra,  higher  than  the  other  portion  (see  below). 
The  scholiast  on  Prometheus  Vinctus,  128,  remarks  : 
"  They  (the  chorus)  say  this  as  they  hover  in  the 
air  on  the  machine  ;  for  it  would  be  absurd  for  them 
to  converse  from  below  \i.e.  from  the  orchestra]  to 
one  aloft ".  Now,  the  pro-stage  theory  makes  all 
choruses  do  this.  The  scholiast  on  Aristophanes' 
Wasps,  1342,  writes  :  "  The  old  man  stands  on  a  certain 
height  (CTU  TWOS  /Lterewpov)  as  he  summons  the  girl ". 
The  word  "  certain "  (TWO?)  implies  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  a  regular  stage.  Finally,  if  there  was  a 
definite  and  regular  difference  of  position  between 
actors  and  chorus,  is  it  not  astonishing  (a)  that  there 
is  in  Greek  literature  no  certain  allusion  to  the  fact, 
(6)  that  the  older  literature  contains  no  word  for  the 
stage,  the  place  where  the  acting  was  performed  being 
referred  to  merely  by  reference  to  the  booth  (eVl  ovopTJs 
and  ctTro  ovoyv^g)  ? 

(iii)  The  architectural  remains.  Dorpfeld  sums  up 
his  celebrated  architectural  researches  thus.  No  theatre 
survives  from  the  fifth  century,  but  the  theatre  of 
Lycurgus  (fourth  century)  belongs  to  a  period  when 
the  plays  of  that  century  were  still  acted  in  the  old 
manner.  Also  we  possess  numerous  buildings  which 
represent  the  rather  later  form  of  the  theatre  (the 

1  He  wrote  a  lexicon  to  Plato  in  the  third  century  after  Christ, 


58  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

building  with  fixed  proscenium),  and  which  belong 
to  that  period  to  which  the  remarks  of  Vitruvius 
apply.  From  the  Lycurgean  theatre  we  learn  that 
there  was  no  stage  high  or  low.  A  platform  for 
actor  or  orator  is  only  necessary  when  the  audience 
are  all  on  a  flat  area.  If  they  sit  on  a  slope,  a  stage 
is  more  inconvenient  than  if  the  speaker  stands  on 
the  ground.1  And  so,  in  the  earliest  times,  when 
there  was  no  sloping  auditorium,  Thespis,  for  example, 
performed  upon  a  cart.  In  Italy  the  slope  came  into 
use  only  late,  and  the  stage  had  been  widely  adopted 
before  that  time — for  there  was  no  chorus  to  provide 
for.  When  the  Greek  theatre  was  introduced  into 
Italy,  the  Roman  form  was  invented.  They  did  not 
abandon  their  own  stage,  but  divided  the  Greek 
orchestra  into  two  parts  of  different  height.  The 
farther  half,  now  superfluous  (the  chorus  having 
vanished)  could  be  used  for  spectators  or  gladiators. 
This  portion  was  (in  earlier  theatres  of  the  true  Greek 
type)  excavated  and  filled  with  fresh  seats.  The 
stage  was,  of  course,  not  made  higher  than  the  lowest 
eyes. 

The  nature  of  the  proscenium  in  Greek  theatres 
was  not  suitable  for  the  supporting  wall  of  a  stage.  It 
would  be  absurd  to  see  a  temple  in  the  air  above  a 
colonnade.2  Again,  it  was  impossible  to  act  on  top  of 
the  proscenium.  The  fear  of  falling,  when  the  actor 
wore  a  mask  and  was  forced  to  approach  the  edge  in 
order  to  be  well  seen  by  the  lowest  spectators,  would 
spoil  his  acting.  Finally,  why  was  the  proscenium-front 
not  a  tangent  of  the  orchestra  circle?  It  should  have 
been  brought  as  far  forward  as  possible  if  they  acted  on 
top  of  it. 

To  sum  up.  The  orchestra  in  the  earliest  period 
was  the  place  of  the  chorus  and  the  actors.  It  kept 

1  Dorpfeld  gives  various  optical  diagrams  to  exhibit  the  effects. 

2  We  incessantly  see  this  effect  in  modern  theatres.     But  in  Greece 
the  presence  of  the  chorus  performing  below  would  force  spectators  to 
regard  the  building  as  suspended, 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS     59 

that  function  when  the  scene  was  erected  beside  it  as 
a  background.  The  chorus  used  the  whole  circle,  the 
actors  only  part  of  it  and  the  ground  which  lay  in  front 
of  the  scene.  No  change  in  this  arrangement  was  made 
later.  The  actors  in  Roman  times,  of  course,  stood 
above  the  level  of  the  excavated  semicircle.  But  they 
remained  throughout  at  the  same  distance  from  the 
spectators1  and  at  the  same  level — that  of  the  old 
orchestra. 

How  then  are  we  to  deal  with  Vitruvius'  statement 
about  the  height  of  the  stage?  Dorpfeld  suggested2 
that  Vitruvius  used  plans  and  descriptions  made  by  a 
Greek  ;  Vitruvius,  in  absence  of  any  warning,  taking  it 
(as  a  Roman)  for  granted  there  was  a  stage,  saw  it  in 
the  proscenium  ;  or  he  may  have  misunderstood  the 
the  phrase  evrt  crK-rjvfjs  in  his  Greek  authority.  But  such 
a  fundamental  error  made  by  a  professional  architect, 
who  even  if  he  had  never  been  in  Greece,  must  have 
known  many  persons  familiar  with  Greek  acting,  is 
extremely  hard  to  assume.3  Yet  the  mistake  is  credible 
as  regards  the  Greek  theatre  of  the  fourth  and  fifth 
centuries. 

Amidst  the  mass  of  evidence  and  argument,  only  an 
outline  of  which  is  here  presented,  it  is  difficult  to  decide. 
The  majority  of  inquirers  will  probably  be  swayed  as 
regards  the  theatre  of  Sophocles  and  Astydamas  by  two 
considerations  :  the  acting  exigencies  of  the  plays  we 
now  read  or  know  of,  and  their  own  feeling  as  to  how 
the  performance  would  look  with  a  stage  and  without. 
It  seems,  perhaps,  most  likely  that  Dorpfeld  is  right :  that 
there  was  no  stage,  though  when  the  fa£ade  represented 
a  palace  or  temple  a  few  steps  might  naturally  appear. 

1  Save,  of  course,  those  on  the  new  lowest  seats,  which  went  down  to 
the  new  level  of  the  excavated  half.     Dorpfeld  has  discovered  evidence 
that  the  present  lowest  seats  at  Athens  were  added  after  the  rest. 

2  Das  griechische    Theater,  p.  364.      After  the  publication  of  this 
view  Dorpfeld  altered  his  opinion,  and  suggested  {Bull.  Corr.  Hell.  1896, 
P-  577  sqq.  that  V.  means  not  the  ordinary  Greek  Theatre,  but  the  Graeco- 
Roman  type  found  in  Asia  Minor.     But  this  seems  worse  than  his  first 
thought.     See  Haigh  3,  pp.  147  sq, 

3  Jbid.  pp.  146  sy. 


60  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

III.  SUPERVISION  OF  DRAMATIC  DISPLAYS 

The  authority  superintending  dramatic  performances 
was  the  Athenian  State,  acting  through  the  archon  basil- 
eus  for  the  Lenaea,  the  archon  eponymus  for  the  City 
Dionysia.  The  archon  allotted  the  task  of  producing 
the  three  annual  series  of  dramas  to  three  persons  for 
each  series :  the  poet,  the  choregus,  the  protagonist. 
We  will  consider  these  persons  in  turn. 

Playwrights  submitted  their  work  to  the  archon,  who 
himself  selected  three :  to  each  he  was  said  to  "give  a 
chorus" .  The  applications  were  many,  and  distinguished 
poets  sometimes  failed  to  "receive  a  chorus".  The 
poet's  business  was  not  only  to  write  the  play  and  the 
music,  (but  in  early  times)  to  train  actors  and  chorus. 
Near  the  end  of  the  fifth  century  B.C.  it  became  the 
practice  to  employ  an  expert  trainer.  Occasionally  the 
poet  caused  some  other  person  to  "produce"  the  play. 
This  was  frequently  done  by  Aristophanes,  and  we  hear 
that  lophon  competed  with  tragedies  written  by  his 
father  Sophocles. 

The  name  "choregus"  means  "chorus-leader,"  but 
the  choregus  actually  had  quite  other  functions.  He 
was  a  rich  citizen  who  as  a  "liturgy"  or  public  service 
bore  all  the  special  cost  of  the  performance.  To  each 
choregus  a  flute-player  was  allotted,  and  it  seems  likely 
that  the  poet  too  was  regarded  as  assigned  to  the 
choregus  rather  than  the  latter  to  the  poet.  The  mount- 
ing of  plays,  which  depended  on  the  choregus,  greatly 
influenced  the  audience,  and  their  expressed  opinion 
cannot  but  have  had  weight  with  the  ten  judges.1  The 
wealthy  Nicias,  for  example,  obtained  success  for  every 
tetralogy  which  he  mounted.2 

The  third  person  with  whom  the  archon  concerned 
himself  was  the  "protagonist"  (the  chief  actor) — after 
the  middle  of  the  fifth  century  ;  before  then  it  appears 
that  poets  chose  their  protagonists.  In  the  middle  of 

1  In  Plato's  time  this  was  notably  so  (Laws,  659  A-C,  700  C,  701  A). 
8  Plutarch,  Nicias,  524  D, 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS     61 

the  fifth  century  a  protagonist  was  selected  by  the 
archon  and  one  assigned  to  each  tragic  poet  by  lot. 
(The  chief  actor  provided  his  subordinates  himself.) 
This  change  came  at  about  the  time  when  three  actors 
were  regularly  employed  in  each  tragedy  and  when  the 
contests  in  acting  were  instituted  ;  a  prize  for  acting 
was  awarded,  and  the  successful  actor  had  the  right  to 
perform  the  following  year.  As  the  importance  of  the 
actor  increased — Aristotle  tells  us  that  in  his  time  the 
success  of  a  play  depended  more  upon  the  actor  than 
upon  the  poet 1 — -it  was  considered  unfair  that  one  poet 
should  have  the  best  performer  for  all  his  plays.  In 
the  middle  of  the  fourth  century  the  arrangement  was 
introduced  that  each  protagonist  should  play  in  one 
tragedy  only  of  each  poet. 

Each  dramatist  competed  with  a  tetralogy 2  (that  is, 
"  four  works  ")  consisting  of  three  tragedies  and  a  satyric 
play,  and  the  claims  of  these  three  tetralogies  were 
decided  by  five 3  judges.  Some  days  before  the  compe- 
tition began,  the  Council  of  the  State  and  the  choregi 
selected  a  number  of  names  from  each  of  the  ten  tribes. 
These  names  were  sealed  up  in  urns,  which  were  pro- 
duced at  the  opening  of  the  festival.  The  archon  drew 
one  name  from  each  urn,  and  the  ten  citizens  so  selected 
were  sworn  as  judges  and  given  special  seats.  After 
the  conclusion  of  the  performances  each  of  the  ten  gave 
his  verdict  on  a  tablet,  and  five  of  these  were  drawn 
by  the  archon  at  random  ;  these  five  judgments  gave 
the  award.  In  this  method  the  principle  of  democratic 
equality  and  the  necessity  to  rely  on  expert  opinion  were 
well  combined.  When  the  votes  had  been  collected,  a 
herald  proclaimed  the  name  of  the  successful  poet  and 
of  his  choregus,  who  were  crowned  with  ivy  (a  plant 

1  Aristotle,  Rhetoric,  III,  i. 

2  This  is  the  usual  term  employed.     See,  however,  Haigh  3,  p.   13, 
note  3  :  "  the  word  rrrpaXoyia  was  applied  only  to  a  group  of  four  plays 
connected  in  subject,"  etc. 

3  This  was  certainly  the   number  for  comedy ;  it  is   assumed   for 
tragedy. 


62  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

always  associated  with  Dionysus).  There  is  no  evi- 
dence that  a  dramatic  choregus  was  given  any  further 
reward :  the  prize  of  a  tripod  was  only  for  dithyramb. 
The  poet  received,  tradition  said,  a  goat l  in  early  times  ; 
after  the  State-supervision  began,  a  sum  of  money  from 
public  funds  was  paid  to  each  of  the  competitors. 
Records  of  the  results  were  inscribed  upon  tablets  and 
set  up  both  by  the  victorious  choregi  and  by  the  State. 
It  is  from  these,  directly  or  indirectly,  that  our  know- 
ledge of  the  facts  is  obtained  ;  directly,  because  such 
inscriptions  have  been  discovered  in  Athens,  indirectly, 
because  they  were  the  basis  of  written  works  on  the 
subject.  Aristotle  wrote  a  book  called  Didascalice 
(SiSaovcaXicu),  that  is,  "  Dramatic  Productions  "  ;  though 
it  is  lost,  later  works  were  based  upon  it,  and  it  is  from 
these  that  the  Greek  "  Arguments  "  to  the  existing  plays 
are  derived. 

IV.  THE  MOUNTING  OF  A  TRAGEDY 

Scenery  was  painted  on  canvas  or  boards  and  at- 
tached to  the  front  of  the  buildings.  In  satyric  drama 
it  appears  to  have  varied  little — a  wild  district  with 
trees,  rocks,  and  a  cave.  Tragedy  generally  employed 
a  temple  or  palace-front,  though  even  in  the  extant 
thirty-two  there  are  exceptions — the  rock  of  Prometheus, 
the  tent  of  Ajax,  the  cave  of  Philoctetes,  and  so  forth. 
In  a  fa£ade  there  were  three  doors,  corresponding  to 
the  three  permanent  doors  in  the  buildings  ;  when  a 
cave  or  tent  was  depicted,  its  opening  was  in  front  of 
the  central  door.  Statues  were  placed  before  the  temple 
or  palace — those  of  the  deities,  for  instance,  in  the 
Agamemnon  to  whom  the  Herald  utters  his  magnificent 
address.  Individuality  would  be  given  to  a  temple  by 
the  statue  of  a  particular  god.  Scene-painting  was 
probably  not  very  artistic  or  scrupulous  of  details.  We 
never  read  any  praise  of  splendid  theatrical  scenery 

1  rpdyos.  This  was  supposed  to  be  the  origin  of  the  word  "  tragedy  " 
(rpaywS/a  "  goat-song  "). 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS     63 

such  as  is  familiar  to-day ;  and  clever  lighting  effects 
were  of  course  out  of  the  question  when  all  was  per- 
formed in  the  daylight.  Here  and  there  the  persons 
allude  to  the  landscape,  as  in  Sophocles'  Electra,  where 
the  aged  attendant  of  Orestes  points  out  to  the  prince 
striking  features  of  the  Argolid  plain.  Such  things 
were  mostly  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  audience,  like 
the  forest  of  Arden  and  the  squares  of  Verona  or  Venice 
in  Shakespeare.  Undoubtedly,  a  Greek  tragedy  pro- 
vided a  beautiful  spectacle,  but  this  resulted  from  the 
costumes,  poses,  and  grouping  of  actors  and  chorus. 

Change  of  scene  was  rarely  needed  in  tragedy  ;  the 
peculiar  arrangements  of  comedy  do  not  concern  us. 
Only  two  extant  tragedies  need  it.  In  the  Eumenides 
of  /Eschylus  the  change  from  the  temple  of  Apollo  at 
Delphi  to  Athena's  temple  in  Athens  is  vital  to  the  plot 
but  need  not  have  caused  much  trouble  ;  probably  con- 
vention was  satisfied  by  changing  the  statue.  In  Ajax 
the  scene  shifts  from  that  hero's  tent  to  a  deserted  part 
of  the  sea-shore  ;  no  doubt  the  tent  was  simply  removed. 
One  reason  against  change  of  scene  was  the  continu- 
ous presence  of  the  chorus  ;  when  the  playwright  found 
he  must  shift  his  locality  the  chorus  were  compelled 
to  retire  and  reappear.  We  read x  of  a  permanent 
appliance  by  which  scenery  could  be  altered  ;  there  is, 
however,  no  evidence  that  it  was  known  in  the  great 
age  of  Athenian  drama.  This  consisted  of  the periacti 
(xre/ata/cTot).  At  each  end  of  the  scene  stood  wooden 
triangular  prisms  standing  on  their  ends  and  revolving 
in  sockets,  so  arranged  that  one  of  the  narrow  oblong 
sides  continued  the  picture.  A  different  subject  was 
painted  on  each  side.  A  twist  given  to  either  marked 
a  change  of  place  ;  the  alteration  of  onefieriactus  meant 
a  change  of  locality  within  the  same  region,  while  the 
alteration  of  both  meant  a  complete  change  of  district. 
Thus,  had  this  contrivance  been  used  in  the  fifth  century, 
one  periactus  would  have  been  moved  in  the  Ajax,  both 
in  the  Eumenides.  Another  and  stranger  use  of  this 

1  Vitruvius,  V,  vi.,  and  Pollux,  iv.,  126. 


64  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

contrivance  is  mentioned  by  Pollux :  "it  introduces 
sea-gods  and  everything  which  is  too  heavy  for  the 
machine  ".  We  shall  return  to  this  when  we  come  to 
the  "  eccyclema  "  and  the  "  machine  ".  No  curtain  is 
known  for  the  classical  age. 

Stage-properties  were  few  and  for  the  most  part 
simple.  Much  the  most  important  was  the  tomb  of 
some  great  person  ;  that  of  Darius  in  the  Persce,  and 
of  Agamemnon  in  the  Choephoroe,  are  fundamental  to 
the  plot,  and  there  are  many  other  examples.1  Statues 
have  already  been  mentioned.  The  spaciousness  of  the 
orchestra  made  it  easy  to  introduce  chariots  and  horses, 
as  in  Agamemnon,  Euripides'  Electro,  and  Iphigenia  at 
Aulis. 

Various  contrivances  were  employed  to  permit  the 
appearance  of  actors  in  circumstances  where  they  could 
not  simply  enter  the  orchestra  or  logeion.  We  need 
not  dwell  upon  certain  quaint  machinery  which  it  is 
fairly  certain  was  not  used  in  the  great  age — "  Charon's 
steps,"  by  which  ghosts  ascended,  the  "  anapiesma " 
which  brought  up  river-gods  and  Furies,  the  "  stro- 
pheion  "  which  snowed  heroes  in  heaven  and  violent 
deaths,  the  "  hemicyclion "  by  which  the  spectators 
were  given  a  view  of  remote  cities  or  of  men  swimming, 
the  "bronteion,"  or  thunder  machine,  consisting  of  a 
sheet  of  metal  and  sacks  of  stones  to  throw  thereon, 
the  "  ceraunoscopeion  "  or  lightning  machine,  a  black 
plank  with  a  flash  painted  upon  it,  which  was  shot 
across  the  stage.  In  the  fifth  century  the  theatrical 
contrivances  amounted  to  four — the  distegia,  the  theo- 
logeion,  the  "machine,"  and  the  eccyclema. 

The  distegia  was  employed  when  human  beings 
showed  themselves  above  the  level  of  the  "stage,"  for 
example  on  a  roof  or  cliff.  Such  appearances  are  not 
common — the  watchman  (Agamemnon),  Antigone  and 
her  nurse  (PkctmtS*),  Orestes  and  Pylades  (Orestes], 

1  Professor  Ridgeway  makes  much  use  of  this  custom  in  his  theory 
that  Greek  drama  originated  in  celebrations  at  the  tombs  of  great  persons. 
See  his  Origin  of  Tragedy ',  and  pp.  2  sq.  above. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS     65 

Evadne  (Euripidean  Supplices\  are  all  the  occasions 
in  existing  tragedy ;  comedy  supplies  a  few  more. 
Probably  it  was  "  a  projecting  balcony  or  upper  story, 
which  might  be  introduced  when  required  "  j1  the  word 
appears  to  mean  "  second  story  ".  The  arrangement 
would  then  correspond  closely  to  the  gallery  used  at 
the  back  of  the  Elizabethan  stage. 

Similar  to  this  was  the  " theologeion  "  ("speaking- 
place  for  gods"),  on  which  gods  or  deified  heroes 
appeared  when  they  were  not  to  be  shown  descending 
through  the  air.  The  arrangement  seems  to  have 
been  a  platform  in  the  upper  part  of  the  scenery. 
Whether  it  was  fixed  there  and  the  actors  entered 
through  an  opening  to  take  their  place,  or  whether 
it  was  used  like  the  eccyclema  (see  below),  is  not  clear. 

We  hear  much  more  of  the  "machine"  (fjirj-^av^) 
by  which  actors  descended  as  from  Heaven  or  ascended. 
It  was  a  crane  from  which  cords  were  attached  to  the 
actor's  body  ;  a  stage-hand  hauled  the  actor  up  or  down 
by  a  winch.  There  are  a  good  many  instances  of  its 
use.  The  apparition  of  Thetis  at  the  close  of  Andro- 
mache exemplifies  the  most  customary  happening.  But 
sometimes  the  machine  had  to  carry  a  greater  burden  ; 
both  the  Dioscuri  appear  in  Euripides'  Electro,,  both 
Iris  and  Frenzy  in  Hercules  Furens.  ^Eschylus  no 
doubt  sent  Oceanus  on  his  four-legged  bird  by  this 
route  ;  possibly  Medea,  and  the  chariot  containing  her 
sons'  bodies,  were  also  suspended  by  it ;  and  it  has 
even  been  thought  that  the  chorus  of  Prometheus 
Vinctus  and  their  "  winged  chariot  "  enter  in  this  way. 
But  the  last  suggestion  is  very  questionable.  The 
weight  would  be  excessive,  and  probably  the  car  is 
supposed  to  be  left  outside,  or  may  have  been  painted 
on  a  periactus.  Aristophanes  gets  excellent  fooling 
out  of  the  machine.  The  celebrated  basket  in  which 
Socrates  "walks  the  air  and  contemplates  the  sun"2 
is  attached  to  it ;  and  in  the  Peace  there  is  a  delightful 
parody  of  Bellerophon's  ascent  to  Heaven. 

1  Haigh  3,  p.  187.  2  Clouds,  225. 


66  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Far  more  puzzling  is  the  eccyclema.  This  cele- 
brated device  was  employed  to  reveal  to  the  spectators 
events  which  had  just  taken  place  "  within  ".  After  the 
murders  in  the  Agamemnon  the  palace  doors  are  opened 
and  Clytsemnestra  is  shown  standing  axe  in  hand  over 
the  corpses  of  Cassandra  and  the  king.  There  are  a 
good  many  instances  of  precisely  the  same  type :  the 
scene  exhibited  is  a  small  tableau.  But  there  are  dis- 
similar examples  which  shall  be  discussed  later.  The 
construction  of  this  machine  is  usually  described  thus. 
Inside  the  middle *  door  was  a  small  oblong  platform  on 
wheels,  upon  which  the  tableau  was  arranged ;  then  the 
platform  was  thrust  out  upon  the  stage  and  in  a  few 
minutes  drawn  back  again.  Two  quite  different  objec- 
tions have  been  raised  to  this  account. 

First,  it 'Seems  ridiculous  to  reveal  what  is  supposed 
to  be  inside  a  building — not  to  come  out,  be  it  observed, 
but  to  stay  inside — by  thrusting  forth  one  or  two  people 
on  a  species  of  dray.  But  we  must  remember  the 
enormous  and  rightful  influence  of  convention.  If 
Greek  audiences  wished  to  see  such  tableaux  and  were 
convinced  that  by  no  other  means  could  they  be  shown, 
then  it  was  their  business  to  accept  the  eccyclema ;  that 
in  such  circumstances  they  would  accept  and  soon  fail 
even  to  notice  it,  is  proved  by  the  whole  history  of  art. 
We  see  nothing  ludicrous  in  the  spectacle  of  a  man 
telling  his  deepest  secrets  in  a  study  one  wall  of  which 
is  replaced  by  a  vast  assembly  of  eavesdroppers.  The 
Elizabethan  theatre  accepted  precisely  this  contrivance 
of  the  eccyclema.  In  our  texts  of  Henry  F/(Pt.  II, 
Act  III,  Sc.  ii.)  we  read  this  stage-direction:  "The 
folding-doors  of  an  inner  chamber  are  thrown  open,  and 
Gloucester  is  discovered  dead  in  his  bed  :  Warwick  and 
others  standing  by  it ".  Instead  of  all  this,  the  old 
direction  merely  says  :  "  Bed  put  forth  ".  In  another 
early  drama  we  find  the  amusing  instruction  :  "  Enter 

1  Pollux  (iv.  128),  who  gives  the  most  definite  description,  adds: 
"  one  must  understand  it  at  each  door,  as  it  were  in  each  house,"  but  his 
unsupported  testimony  on  any  subject  is  not  trustworthy. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    67 

So-and-So  in  bed".  The  aesthetic  objection  to  the 
eccyclema  has  no  force  whatever. 

The  other  objection  rests  on  the  fact  that  a  more 
elaborate  tableau  is  sometimes  indicated  than  could  be 
accommodated  on  so  narrow  a  platform.  The  most 
serious  example  is  provided  by  the  Eumenides,  where 
we  are  to  imagine  upon  the  eccyclema  an  altar,  Orestes 
kneeling  by  it,  Apollo  and  Hermes  standing  beside  him, 
and  the  whole  chorus  of  Furies  sleeping  around  them. 
In  Aristophanes'  Clouds  the  interior  of  Socrates'  school 
is  exhibited,  with  pupils  at  work  amid  lecture-room 
appliances.  A  brilliant  scene  of  the  same  poet's  Achar- 
nians  depicts  Dicseopolis'  interview  with  Euripides, 
who  is  too  busy  to  come  downstairs  from  his  study-attic, 
but  consents  to  be  "  wheeled  out ".  Thus  the  eccyclema 
shows  him  outside  and  also  aloft :  how  could  this  be 
represented  on  the  dray  ?  Perhaps  by  elevating  poet  and 
furniture  upon  posts  ?  Even  this  is  not  inconceivable.1 
Nor  is  it  impossible  that  the  Furies  of  the  Eumenides 
were  arranged  on  two  eccyclemata  of  their  own,  thrust 
out  of  the  side  doors,  while  Orestes  and  the  gods  were 
upon  the  central  platform.  For  Pollux  does  say  that 
there  were  three. 

Other  views  of  this  machine  have  been  offered,  which 
explain  the  "wheeling"  of  which  we  read  as  the  work- 
ing of  wheeled  mechanism,  such  as  a  winch.  Some 
would  have  it  that  the  scenery  opens,  whether  doors  are 
flung  wide,  or  the  canvas  is  rolled  back  like  curtains. 
In  this  way  a  considerable  area  behind  the  scenes  could 
be  revealed.  This  is,  of  course,  infinitely  more  in 
accordance  with  modern  ideas.  But  it  will  not  fit  all 
the  available  evidence,  which  talks  of  "  wheeling  in"  and 
"  wheeling  out,"  "  Roll  this  unhappy  man  within  "  2  and 
the  like.  Moreover,  in  such  a  simple  operation  there 
would  be  nothing  for  Aristophanes  to  parody.  A  third 

1  In  fact  Pollux,  who  is  fond  of  making  a  particular  case  into  a  general 
rule,  may  have  had  this  instance  in  his  head.  He  writes  (iv.  128) :  "the 
eccyclema  is  a  lofty  stand  raised  upon  timbers  and  carrying  a  chair" 
(eVt  £v\(i)v  {ixJ/TjAoj/  ftddpov  «o  f Trt/cftroi  dpovos), 

"Ar.  Knights,  1249. 


68  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

explanation  is  that  a  considerable  part  of  the  back  scene 
was  cut  out  and  replaced  so  as  to  swing  on  a  perpendicu- 
lar axis.  Projecting  from  this  at  the  back  was  a  small 
platform,  upon  which  the  tableau  was  grouped ;  this 
oblong  portion  was  twisted  round  so  that  the  platform 
pointed  towards  the  spectators.  It  resembled,  in  fact, 
that  contrivance  in  the  modern  Japanese  theatre  by 
which  one  scene  is  prepared  while  the  preceding  action 
takes  place,  and  is  swung  into  position  when  needed. 
A  grave  objection  to  this  is  that  some  of  the  groups 
— those  in  Eumenides  and  Acharnians — would  be  too 
large  for  such  a  contrivance.  The  best  view  seems  to 
be  the  traditional,  to  which  the  evidence  strongly  points. 
As  for  the  large  scenes  so  displayed,  various  tolerable 
explanations  may  be  found.  Only  one  or  two  Furies 
and  Socratic  novices  may  have  appeared  on  the  plat- 
form, and  the  others  may  have  simply  walked  in  through 
the  right  and  left  doors,  or  even  been  shown  on  subsidiary 
platforms  at  those  entrances. 

All  other  appurtenances  of  a  performance  were  pro- 
vided by  the  choregus — such  things  as  chariots  and 
animals,  and,  far  the  most  important,  costumes  of  chorus 
and  actors.  All  dramatic  performers,  both  actors  and 
chorus  in  tragedy,  comedy,  and  satyric  drama  alike, 
wore  disguise  throughout  the  whole  history  of  the  ancient 
theatre.  The  reason  in  the  first  place  was  that  masks 
or  some  kind  of  facial  disguise — in  Thespis'  time  the 
face  was  anointed  with  lees  of  wine — was  a  feature  of 
Dionysiac  worship.  The  dressing  of  a  tragic  chorus 
was  generally  a  simple  matter.  It  often  represented  a 
company  of  people  from  the  district  with  no  special 
characteristics.  The  dress  was  therefore  the  usual  dress 
of  Greek  men  or  women,  with  a  special  shoe,  the  crcpis 
(Kpr)TTi<i),  said  to  have  been  introduced  by  Sophocles. 
There  were  also  obvious  indications  of  circumstances  ; 
old  men  wore  beards  and  carried  staves  ;  suppliants 
bore  olive-branches  twined  with  wool.  The  occasional 
choruses  of  peculiar  character  were  of  course  equipped 
specially.  In  Euripides'  Bacchcz  they  were  dressed  in 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    69 

fawn-skins  and  carried  timbrels.  When  yEschylus 
brought  out  his  Eumenides  he  designed  the  Furies' 
costume  himself;  their  terrible  masks  and  the  snakes 
entwined  in  their  hair  are  said  to  have  terrified  the 
spectators  and  produced  most  untoward  effects  on  the 
more  susceptible.  The  equipment  of  satyric  choristers 
was  very  different.  They  were  always  dressed  as 
satyrs  or  goat-men.  A  tight  garment,  representing  the 
naked  flesh,  covered  their  bodies.  Their  masks  were 
surmounted  by  horns,  their  feet  were  shod  in  hoof- 
shaped  shoes,  and  round  their  middle  they  wore  a 
woollen  girdle  like  goatskin  to  which  were  attached  the 
phallus  and  a  tail,  which,  however,  after  about  400  B.C., 
resembled  the  tail  of  a  horse,  not  a  goat,  the  satyr-type 
being  superseded  by  the  Silenus-type.  Satyric  actors 
seem  to  have  worn  much  the  same  costume  as  the  tragic, 
save  that  the  dress  of  Silenus  represented  the  hides  of 
animals. 

The  dress  of  tragic  actors  was  mostly  the  invention 
of  ./Eschylus  and  showed  little  change  throughout 
ancient  times.  Everything  was  done  to  make  the 
actor's  appearance  as  stately  as  possible.  His  robes  were 
heavy,  sweeping,  and  of  brilliant  colours.  His  size  was 
increased  by  various  devices.  The  boot,  the  famous 
cothurnus  (Kodopvos)  or  buskin,  had  an  immensely  thick 
sole ;  the  limbs  were  padded  and  the  height  was  further 
increased  by  an  oncus  (oyKos)  or  projection  of  the  mask 
above  the  forehead.  The  mask  itself  was  modelled  and 
painted  to  correspond  with  the  character  :  a  tyrant's 
mask  wore  a  frown,  that  of  a  suppliant  a  distorted  look 
of  misery,  and  so  forth.  Increased  power  was  given  to 
the  voice  by  a  large  orifice  at  the  mouth.  Identity  was 
indicated  wherever  possible  by  some  obvious  mark  : 
Apollo  was  known  by  his  bow,  Heracles  by  his  lion's 
skin  and  club,  kings  by  crowns  and  sceptres.  It  was  a 
joke  against  Euripides  that  his  heroes  so  often  entered 
in  the  rags  of  beggary. 

Such  a  cumbersome  equipment  would  be  fatal  to 
acting  as  we  understand  it.  The  mask  at  once  destroys 


70  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

all  chance  of  that  facial  play  which  we  deem  essential  ; 
the  padded  limbs,  heavy  garments,  and  gigantic  boots 
made  all  life-like  motion  and  Man  impossible.  This  is 
no  doubt  one  great  reason  why  the  playwrights  rarely 
exhibit  exciting  physical  action.  Even  so,  the  ludicrous 
sometimes  occurred.  yEschines  when  acting  CEnomaus 
fell  and  had  to  be  helped  up  by  the  chorus-trainer.1  A 
natural  supposition  is  that  these  impedimenta  date  not 
from  yEschylus  but  from  the  period  of  vulgar  elabora- 
tion. Certainly,  it  is  not  easy  to  imagine  how  such 
scenes  as  the  delirium  of  Orestes,  or  the  departure  of 
Pentheus  in  the  Bacchfs,  could  have  been  reasonably 
carried  out — so  to  say — on  stilts  ;  indeed  the  whole 
spirit  of  such  plays  as  Orestes,  Ion,  and  Iphigenia  at 
Aulis  seems  utterly  alien  to  such  equipment.  But  it  is 
hard  to  set  aside  the  voice  of  all  the  evidence.  The 
best  way  would  be  to  surmise  that  Euripides  sometimes 
dispensed  with  buskins  and  the  rest — though  we  should 
surely  expect  some  allusion  to  so  remarkable  a  change 
— for  noble  as  is  the  work  of  his  predecessors,  it  could 
be  so  performed  without  too  absurd  an  effect.  If 
Garrick's  audience  did  not  object  to  his  playing  Mac- 
beth in  a  periwig  and  knee-breeches,  it  is  likely  enough 
that  Athens  was  content  with  such  a  Clytsemnestra  as 
Pollux  would  have  us  imagine. 

V.  THE  PERFORMERS  AND  THEIR  WORK 

A  tragic  performance  was  carried  out  by  actors, 
extra  performers,  flute-player,  and  chorus.  All  these 
were  men. 

Extra  performers,  though  they  take  up  very  little 
space  in  our  text,  were  important  to  the  spectacle. 
Mutes  were  often  needed.  Not  only  did  these  figure 
as  attendants,  crowds,  and  the  like ;  they  are  sometimes 
important  to  the  plot  though  they  do  not  happen  to 
speak.  The  jury  of  Areopagites  in  Eumenides  is  vital ; 

1  This  story  occurs  in  the  anonymous  Life  of  /Eschines. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    71 

children  such  as  Eurysaces  in  Ajax,  and  the  sons  l  of 
Medea,  are  important.  Other  extra  performers  were 
those  who  had  very  small  speaking  or  singing  parts, 
such  as  Eumelus  in  Alcestis.  This  would  seem  to  mean 
a  fourth  actor,  but,  so  slight  was  the  part  always 2  allotted, 
that  it  is  not  an  unreasonable  statement  that  there  were 
never  more  than  three  actors.  Thirdly,  an  extra  chorus 
was  occasionally  needed  for  a  short  scene,  as  the  Pro- 
pompi  in  Eumenides  and  the  Huntsmen  in  Hippolytus. 
Any  such  extra  performer  was  called  a  parachoregema 
(Tra/oa^o/a^y^/xa,  "  extra  supply  ")  and  was  paid  by  the 
choregus,  as  the  name  shows.  (The  regular  chorus 
was  paid  by  the  State.)  At  times  a  chorus  sang  behind 
the  scenes  and  was  then  called  a  "  parascenion  "  ;  this 
function  would,  if  possible,  be  performed  by  members  of 
the  regular  chorus. 

Instrumental  music  was  supplied  by  a  single  flute- 
player,  paid  by  the  choregus.  He  was  stationed  in  the 
orchestra,  very  likely  upon  the  step  of  the  thymele,  and 
accompanied  all  songs.  At  times  a  harpist  was  added 
to  the  flute-player  ;  Sophocles  had  great  success  with 
that  instrument  in  his  own  Thamyris.  At  the  end  of  a 
play  the  flute-player  led  the  chorus  out  of  the  orchestra. 
The  music  itself  is  a  subject  complicated  and  obscure. 
Practically  none  of  it  has  survived,  and  the  details  are 
naturally  difficult  to  determine  ;  but  some  main  facts  are 
clear.  Though  there  was  much  singing  and  dancing 
the  music  composed  by  the  tragedians  was  vastly  more 
simple  than  that  of  a  modern  opera.  All  choral  singing 
was  in  unison,  and  as  a  rule  the  words  dominated  the 
music.3  The  result  was  that  an  audience  followed  the 
language  of  an  ode  with  ease,  nor  is  it  likely  that  such 
lyrics  as  those  of  the  Agamemnon  or  the  Colonus-song, 
not  to  mention  'many  others,  which  are  masterpieces  of 

1  They  are  mutes,  for  the  lines  supposed  to  be  uttered  by  one  or  both 
behind  the  scenes  were  probably  delivered  by  one  of  the  actors  not  needed 
"in  front". 

3  The  CEdipus  Coloneus  is  an  exception.  See  Jebb's  Introduction, 
3rd  ed.,  pp.  7,  8. 

3  Cp.  the  vigorous  protest  of  Pratinas  (p.  6). 


72  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

literature,  would  have  been  written  were  they  fated  to 
be  drowned  by  elaborate  music.  Nevertheless  a  dis- 
tinct change  took  place  even  in  the  fifth  century,  owing 
chiefly  to  the  eminent  composer  Timotheus,  whose  in- 
novations were  of  course  looked  upon  by  conservative 
taste  as  corrupt  ;  the  comic  playwright  Pherecrates 
grumbles  about  the  way  in  which  his  notes  scurry  hither 
and  thither  like  ants  in  a  nest,1  a  charge  repeated  almost 
in  the  same  words  by  Aristophanes  against  Agathon. 
Euripides  followed  the  new  manner,  and  his  novelties 
are  brilliantly  caricatured  in  the  Frogs:  the  elaborate 
but  thin  libretto  and  the  trills.2  The  increasing  use 
of  monodies,  or  solos  by  an  actor,  which  we  find  in 
Euripides — the  exotic  but  effective  performance  of  the 
Phrygian  slave  in  Orestes  is  a  conspicuous  instance — 
also  points  to  the  growing  importance  of  musical  virtu- 
osity. Greek  music  was  composed  in  certain  modes 
(i/o/xot),  the  precise  difference  between  which  is  not  clear, 
though  the  ethical  distinctions  are  known.  The  Dorian 
mode  was  austere  and  majestic,  the  Lydian  and  Mixo- 
lydian  plaintive,  the  Phrygian  passionate. 

We  come  now  to  the  actors.  These  three  per- 
formers were  able  to  present  more  than  three  persons, 
since  they  could  change  mask  and  costume  behind 
the  scenes.  One  of  them  far  outshone  the  others  in 
importance — the  "protagonist"  (Tr/Domxyamo-T^'s,  "first 
competitor  ").  He  alone  was  allotted  to  the  poet  by 
the  archon  ;  the  "  deuteragonist "  and  "  tritagonist," 
he  selected  himself;  he  alone  could  be  a  competitor 
for  the  acting  prize.  The  most  important  role  was 
of  course  performed  by  him.  In  many  dramas  this 
was  a  vast  responsibility  ;  Hamlet  himself — the  pro- 
verbial instance — is  not  more  vital  to  his  play  than 
Prometheus,  CEdipus,  or  Medea  to  theirs.  The  other 
two  divided  the  minor  parts  among  them  ;  it  was  the 
custom  to  give  a  tritagonist  the  role  of  a  king  when 
only  spectacularly  important — the  Doge  in  The  Mer- 

1  Pherecrates,  Cheiron,  frag,  i,  cp.  Arist.  Thesmoph.  100. 
sAr.  Frogs,  1314. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    73 

chant  of  Venice  would  have  been  just  the  part.  In 
earlier  dramas  it  is  plain  which  r61e  would  be  given 
to  the  protagonist ;  there  is  no  mistaking  the  pre- 
eminence of  Clytaemnestra  in  Agamemnon  or  of  Philoc- 
tetes.  But  in  some  later  works  it  is  not  clear  who  is 
the  outstanding  character.  In  the  Bacchce  Dionysus 
and  Pentheus,  in  the  Orestes  Electra  and  her  brother, 
have  parts  of  fairly  equal  importance.  In  such  cases 
the  protagonist  would  take  an  important  role  and  a 
minor  role.  Change  of  costume  took  little  time,  as 
examination  of  structure  sometimes  shows.1 

This  restriction  of  the  "company"  to  three  actors 
had  important  influence  upon  both  plot  and  presenta- 
tion. As  for  plot,  however  many  persons  a  dramatist 
used,  he  clearly  could  not  bring  more  than  three  of 
them  forward  together.  But  the  power  to  do  even 
this  was  frugally  used  :  there  are  but  few  instances 
of  a  genuine  three-cornered  conversation  ;  one  of  the 
three  in  turn  is  generally  silent.  In  the  Recognition- 
scene  of  the  Tauric  Iphigenia,  Orestes,  Pylades,  and 
Iphigenia  are  all  present,  but  though  the  e'claircissement 
fills  about  two  hundred  lines,  the  only  part  of  it  in 
which  all  three  share  is  but  twenty  lines  in  length. 
This  frugality  indicates  that  the  simplicity  of  Greek 
tragedy  is  a  result  not  only  of  external  conditions,  but 
of  the  poets'  deliberate  choice.  As  for  presentation, 
the  restriction  to  three  actors  would  result  in  excellent 
playing  of  minor  parts  :  a  thoroughly  competent  per- 
former would  discharge  such  short  but  important  roles 
as  that  of  the  Butler  in  Alcestis  and  the  Herald  in 
Agamemnon.  Anyone  who  has  been  depressed  by 
wooden  Macduffs  and  Bassanios  will  realize  the  value 
of  this  method. 

A  Greek  actor  combined  the  functions  of  a  modern 

1  We  hear  from  the  scholiast  on  Choephorce,  900,  that  the  same  actor 
took  the  part  of  Pylades  and  of  the  servant  who  gives  the  alarm.  The 
latter  after  arousing  Clytaemnestra  rushes  within,  and  when  the  Queen  has 
uttered  five  lines  Pylades  appears  accompanying  Orestes.  This  example 
is  given  by  Haigh 3,  p.  232. 


74  (iREEK  TRAGEDY 

actor  and  of  an  operatic  performer.  Lyrics  performed 
by  actor  and  chorus  together  were  called  "  commi " 
(KO/H/JLOI)  :  the  most  elaborate  instance  is  the  great  and 
lengthy  invocation  of  Agamemnon's  shade  in  the 
Choephoroe.  A  solo  by  an  actor  was  known  as  a 
"monody";  Euripides  is  particularly  fond  of  these; 
Ion's  song  is  perhaps  the  most  attractive.  Finally,  two 
or  three  actors  might  sing  alternately  to  each  other  with- 
out the  chorus  ;  no  name  for  this  has  been  preserved. 
Certain  other  passages  were  neither  sung  nor  spoken, 
but  delivered  in  recitative  :  in  tragedy  these  were  the 
dialogue-trochaics  and  anapaests.  Iambics  were  spoken 
(or  "  declaimed  ").  Obviously  the  voice  is  of  great  im- 
portance to  an  actor's  proficiency,  above  all  in  a  vast 
open-air  theatre,  but  Greek  writers  lay  even  more  stress 
upon  it  than  we  should  have  expected.  Both  volume 
and  subtlety  were  demanded.  This  is  illustrated  by  a 
famous  story.1  An  actor  named  Hegelochus  ruined  the 
sick-bed  scene  in  Orestes  by  a  slip  in  pronunciation. 
Orestes,  on  recovering  from  delirium,  says  (v.  279):— 

«'K  Ku/xara>i/  yap  avdis  civ  yaXrjv'  6p£> 

"after  the  billows  once  more  I  see  a  calm".  The  un- 
lucky player  instead  of  saying  yaXrjv'  said  yaXrjv,  "once 
more  do  I  see  a  weasel  coming  out  of  the  waves  ".  The 
theatre  burst  into  laughter,  for  correct  pronunciation  was 
far  more  insisted  upon  than  in  the  English  theatre  of 
to-day.2  The  status  of  the  acting  profession  rose  steadily 
as  time  went  on.  At  first  the  poet  acted  as  protagonist, 
but  this  practice  was  dropped  by  Sophocles,  owing  to 
the  weakness  of  his  voice.  From  that  time  acting  was 
free  to  develop  as  a  separate  profession.  In  the  middle 

1  Told  by  the  scholiast  on  Aristophanes,  Frogs,  303. 

J  The  slovenliness  in  this  regard  of  many  modern  actors  is  mostly 
due  to  "  long  runs  ".  After  saying  the  same  thing  hundreds  of  times,  an 
actor  naturally  tends  to  mechanical  diction.  The  writer  has  heard  a  per- 
former in  an  emotional  crisis  suddenly  (as  it  appeared)  call  for  cham- 
pagne. Feeling  sure  that  "Pommery"  could  not  be  right,  he  reflected, 
and  discovered  that  the  mysterious  syllables  meant  "  Poor  Mary  !  "  Even 
actors  at  the  head  of  the  profession  are  guilty  of  such  things  as  "  the  lor 
of  Venice  ". 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    75 

of  the  fifth  century  a  prize  for  acting  was  instituted,  and 
the  actor's  name  began  to  be  added  in  the  official  records 
of  victories.  In  the  fourth  century  the  importance  of  the 
player  increased  still  more.  We  have  seen  that  he  was 
so  vital  to  the  success  of  a  playwright  that  for  fair- 
ness' sake  the  three  protagonists  each  acted  in  a  single 
tragedy  of  each  poet.  We  often  hear  of  brilliant  acting 
successes.  In  the  fourth  century  an  Actors'  Guild 
was  formed  at  Athens  and  continued  in  existence  for 
centuries.  Its  object  was  to  protect  the  remarkable 
privileges  held  by  the  "  artists  of  Dionysus  ".  They  were 
looked  upon  as  great  servants  of  religion,  and  were  not 
only  in  high  social  esteem  but  possessed  definite  privi- 
leges, especially  the  right  of  safe-conduct  through  hostile 
states  and  exemption  from  military  service.  About  the 
beginning  of  the  third  century  before  Christ  the  Am- 
phictyonic  Council,  at  the  instance  of  the  Guild  itself, 
renewed  a  decree,  the  terms  of  which  have  fortunately 
been  preserved,1  affirming  the  immunity  of  person  and 
property  granted  to  the  Athenian  actors. 

The  chorus,  we  have  seen,  was  originally  the  only 
celebrant  of  the  Dionysiac  festival.  As  the  importance 
of  the  actors  increased  it  became  less  and  less  vital  to 
the  performance.  Its  numbers,  its  connexion  with  the 
plot,  and  the  length  and  relevance  of  its  songs,  all  steadily 
diminished. 

Originally  there  were  fifty  choristers,  but  we  learn 
that  early  in  the  fifth  century  there  were  only  twelve, 
and  it  is  suggested  that  this  change  was  due  to  the 
introduction  of  tetralogies — the  fifty  choreutae  being 
divided  as  equally  as  possible  between  the  four  dramas. 
Sophocles,  it  is  said,  raised  the  number  to  fifteen.  This 
account  is  doubtful.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things 
likely  that  /Eschylus  (if  it  was  he)  caused  or  approved 
such  an  immense  drop  in  numbers,  from  fifty  to  twelve  : 
for  the  notion  that  the  original  chorus  was  split  up  into 
four  is  frivolous.  Is  it  not  obvious  that  a  poet  would 

1  See  Haigh  *,  p.  279  sg.,  for  some  highly  interesting  extracts. 


76  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

employ  the  same  choristers  for  each  play  of  his  tetralogy  ? 
Again,  that  Sophocles  should  chafe  at  yEschylus'  twelve 
singers  and  alter  the  number,  and  that  by  a  mere  trifle 
of  three,  is  quite  unlikely.  There  is,  moreover,  strong 
evidence  that  the  elder  poet  used  fifty  choreutse,  at  any 
rate  in  his  earlier  time.  The  Supplices  has  for  chorus 
the  daughters  of  Danaus,  and  their  exact  number,  fifty, 
was  a  familiar  datum  of  the  legend.  The  natural  view 
is  that  yEschylus  began  with  fifty,  that  Sophocles 
ended  with  fifteen,  and  that  between  these  two  points 
the  number  gradually  sank.  Whether  the  choreutae 
after  the  fifth  century  became  still  fewer  is  not  clearly 
known  ;  there  is  some  evidence  that  at  times  they  were 
only  seven. 

Next,  the  dramatic  value  of  the  chorus  steadily  went 
down.  In  our  earliest  tragedy,  the  y^schylean  Supplices, 
the  chorus  of  Danaids  is  absolutely  vital ;  they  are  the 
chief,  almost  the  sole,  interest.  In  other  works  of  the 
same  poet  their  importance  is  certainly  less,  but  still  very 
great ;  everywhere  they  are  deeply  interested  in  the 
fate  of  the  chief  persons — Xerxes,  Eteocles,  Prometheus, 
Agamemnon,  Orestes  ;  the  chorus  of  the  Eumenides  is 
even  more  closely  attached  to  the  plot.  In  Sophocles  a 
certain  change  is  to  be  felt.  The  connexion  between 
chorus  and  plot  is  of  much  the  same  quality  as  in  the 
five  plays  just  mentioned,  but  the  emotional  tie  and 
(still  more)  the  tie  of  self-interest  are  weaker.  The 
chorus  of  Greek  seamen  in  Philoctetes  are  (in  the  ab- 
stract) as  deeply  concerned  in  the  issue  as  the  Oceanids 
in  Prometheus,  but  most  readers  would  probably  agree 
that  they  show  it  less  ;  we  can  "  think  away  "  the  chorus 
more  easily  from  the  Philoctetes.  In  all  the  other  six 
Sophoclean  dramas  the  interest  of  the  chorus  in  the 
action  is  about  the  same  as  in  the  Philoctetes — strong  but 
scarcely  vital.  Euripides'  work  shows  more  variety. 
Alcestis,  Heracleida,  Hecuba,  /on,  Troades,  Iphigenia  in 
Tauris,  Helen,  and  Rhesus  all  possess  choruses  which 
are  prima-facie  Sophoclean  in  this  regard,  though  their 
language  tends  to  show  less  personal  concern.  In  other 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    77 

dramas,  Medea,  Hippolytus,  Andromache,  Electra,  Phoz- 
nissa,  Orestes,  Iphigenia  at  Aulis,  the  chorus  is  simply  a 
company  of  spectators.  Thirdly,  in  two  plays,  Supplices 
and  Bacchce,  the  importance  of  the  chorus  is  thoroughly 
^schylean.  In  Euripides,  then,  there  is  found  on  the 
whole  a  weakening  in  the  dramatic  value  of  the  chorus  : 
in  some  instances  the  singers  are  little  more  than  ran- 
dom visitors.  In  the  fourth  century  Aristotle  protests 
against  this  :  "  the  chorus  too  should  be  regarded  as  one 
of  the  actors  ;  it  should  be  an  integral  part  of  the  whole, 
and  share  in  the  action,  in  the  manner  not  of  Euripides 
but  of  Sophocles  ".1 

A  precisely  similar  change  operated  in  the  length 
of  the  ode.  The  lyrics  of  .^Eschylus'  Supplices  form 
more  than  half  the  work,  those  of  Orestes  only  one- 
ninth.  Even  at  the  end  of  ^schylus'  career  we  find 
in  the  Agamemnon  odes  magnificent,  elaborate,  and 
lengthy.  Sophocles  composed  shorter  songs  which  were 
still  closely  germane  to  the  plot.  But  in  Euripides  there 
frequently  occur  lyrics  whose  connexion  with  the  plot  is 
slight,  sometimes  difficult  to  make  out.  Agathon  carried 
this  still  further  :  his  odes  are  mere  interludes,  quite  out- 
side the  plot.2 

The  fifteen  choristers  usually  entered  through  the 
parados,  marching  like  soldiers.3  Drawn  up  in  ranks 
upon  the  orchestra,  they  followed  the  action  with  their 
backs  to  the  audience  but  faced  about  when  they  sang. 
Their  work  fell  into  two  parts,  the  odes  sung  between 
the  episodes,  and  participation  in  the  episodes.  The 
entrance-song  was  called  the  parodos  or  "  entrance,"  and 
was  written  in  anapaestic  rhythm,  suitable  for  marching. 
If  so,  it  was  chanted  in  recitative ;  lyrics  were  sung. 
Songs  between  episodes  were  called  stasima.  This 
means  "stationary  songs,"  not  because  the  singers 
stood  still  but  because  they  had  taken  up  their  station 

1  Poetic,  14560  (tr.  Butcher).  a  Ibid. 

3  This  was  the  normal  mode  of  entry,  but  the  plot  sometimes  de- 
manded others.  In  the  Eumenides  the  Chorus  rush  in  pell-mell ;  so  prob- 
ably in  the  Bacchce ;  in  the  Euripidean  Supplices  they  are  discovered 
grouped  around  the  Queen. 


78  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

in  the  orchestra.  As  they  left  at  the  end  they  sang 
an  exodos  or  "  exit"  in  anapaests.  Besides  these,  there 
were  occasional  hyporchemes  (uTro/a^/Liara,  "dances"), 
short,  lively  songs  expressing  sudden  joy.  All  lyrics 
were  rendered  by  both  song  and  dance.  Singing 
was  generally  executed  by  all  the  choreutse,  but  some 
passages  were  divided  between  them.  The  most  fre- 
quent division  was  into  two  semi-choruses  (^/xt^d/ata), 
but  now  and  then  individuals  sang  a  few  words.  In- 
cidental iambic  lines  were  spoken  by  one  person,  and 
the  short  anapaestic  system  which  at  the  end  of  the 
lyric  often  announces  the  approach  of  an  actor  was 
no  doubt  assigned  to  the  coryphaus,  or  chorus-leader 
alone.  Dancing  was  also  an  essential  feature,  but 
both  Greeks  and  Romans  meant  more  by  dancing 
than  do  we,  or  than  we  did  before  the  rise  of  "  Salome  " 
performances.  It  was  in  fact  a  mimetic  display,  giving 
by  the  rhythmic  manipulation  of  all  the  limbs  an 
imitation  of  the  emotions  expressed,  or  the  events 
described,  by  the  song.  The  whole  company,  more- 
over, went  through  certain  evolutions  over  the  surface 
of  the  orchestra.  When  they  sang  the  strophe 1  they 
moved  in  one  direction,  back  again  for  the  antistrophe? 
and  perhaps  stood  still  when  there  was  an  epode.1  But 
nothing  is  known  as  to  details  here.  The  centre  of 
all  the  dancing  was  the  coryphaeus  (Kopv(f>cuo<;,  "  top 
man"),  the  leader  of  the  chorus  ;  when  two  semi-choruses 
acted  separately  each  had  its  leader.  As  was  natural, 
choric  dancing  flourished  mightily  in  the  early  days, 
and  went  down  with  lyrical  performance  in  general. 
Thus  Phrynichus  congratulated  himself  on  having  de- 
vised "  as  many  figures  of  the  dance  as  are  the  billows 
on  the  sea  under  a  dread  night  of  storm  ".  /Eschylus 
too  was  a  brilliant  ballet-master.  But  Plato,  the  comic 
playwright,  at  the  end  of  the  same  century  grumbles a 
amusingly  : — 

1  See  ppl  344  sg.  ^ 

a  toor'  (1  TIS  opxo'ir'  fv,  6ta\t   r\v  •    vvv  8e  8p<acriv  ov8fvt 
dXX'  uxrnfp  airoir\T)KTOi  pdSrjv  (CTTcoTfs  apvovrat. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    79 

There  was  something  to  watch  when  the  dancing  was  good, 

But  now  there's  no  acting  to  mention — 
Just  a  paralysed  row  of  inflexible  singers, 

Who  howl  as  they  stand  at  attention. 

During  the  best  period  of  the  chorus  its  mimetic 
dancing  must  have  been  a  wonderful  spectacle.  We 
hear  of  highly-skilled  performers  who  could  reproduce 
action  so  that  the  audience  followed  every  detail.  They 
seem  to  have  "  accompanied "  some  portions  of  the 
episodes  in  this  manner  ;  and  that  fact  may  account  for 
a  rather  curious  feature  in  the  Ion.  The  messenger 
gives  a  remarkably  detailed  description  of  the  designs 
upon  the  embroideries  wherewith  Ion  roofed  his  great 
banqueting-marquee  —  the  constellations  and  "Dawn 
pursuing  the  stars  "  are  all  described.  Possibly  this 
was  written  for  the  sake  of  an  unusually  brilliant  mi- 
metic evolution  by  groups  of  choreutse. 

The  chorus  had  other  duties  during  the  episodes. 
As  a  body  they  normally  showed  themselves  interested 
spectators  ;  thus  the  chorus  of  Orestes  enter  in  order 
to  inquire  of  Electra  concerning  her  sick  brother.  Not 
infrequently  they  do  more,  taking  an  actual  share  in 
events.  At  the  close  of  Agamemnon  the  Argive  elders 
are  at  point  to  do  battle  with  ./Egisthus  and  his  hench- 
men ;  in  Alcestis  they  join  the  funeral  procession  ;  at 
other  times  they  aid  the  persons  of  the  play,  not  only 
by  misleading  enemies  (Choephorce)  or  directing  friends 
(CEdipus  Tyraftnus)  but  by  keeping  watch  (Orestes). 
Further,  the  coryphaeus  almost  always  delivers  two  or 
three  lines  at  the  end  of  every  long  speech,  save  when 
it  ends  a  scene.  These  little  interpolations  are  in- 
variably obvious  and  feeble.  After  Hermione's  tirade 
against  women  the  coryphaeus  comments  thus  :  "  Too 
freely  hast  thou  indulged  thy  tongue  against  thy  sex. 
It  is  pardonable  in  thee,  but  still  women  should  gloss 
over  the  weaknesses  of  women."  Anyone  who  has 
listened  to  the  delivery  of  some  splendid  passage  in 
Shakespeare,  an  outburst  of  Lear  or  Mercutio's  Queen 
Mab  speech,  will  remember  how  the  applause  which 


80  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

follows  it  drowns  the  next  speaker's  opening  lines. 
Some  pause  is  needed.  This  is  provided  in  Greek 
tragedy  by  the  insertion  of  a  line  or  two  which  will 
not  be  missed  if  inaudible. 

The  satyric  chorus  diverged  little  from  the  tragic  in 
the  points  discussed  under  this  section.  It  had,  how- 
ever, a  special  type  of  dance  called  the  "  Sikinnis  ".  "  One 
of  the  postures  used  .  .  .  was  called  the  owl,  and  is 
variously  explained  by  the  old  grammarians  as  having 
consisted  in  shading  the  eyes  with  the  hands,  or  in  turn- 
ing the  head  to  and  fro  like  an  owl." 

VI.  THE  AUDIENCE 

The  time  of  the  Dionysiac  festivals,  especially  the 
great  Dionysia,  was  a  holiday  for  all  Athens,  and  the 
centre  of  enjoyment  was  the  show  of  tragedies  and 
comedies.  At  sunrise  the  theatre  was  filled  with  a  huge 
throng  prepared  to  sit  packed  together  for  hours  facing 
the  sun  with  no  interval  for  a  meal  or  for  exercise.  It 
is  important  to  remember  that  in  Athens  that  incalcul- 
able play-goer,  "the  average  man,"  did  really  enjoy  and 
appreciate  first-class  dramatic  work. 

There  were  a  few  rows  of  special  seats  for  officials 
and  persons  otherwise  honoured  by  the  State.  All  the 
rest  of  the  space,  save  for  the  separation  of  men  and 
women,  and  the  possibility  that  each  cercis  was  allotted 
to  a  distinct  tribe,  was  open  to  all  without  distinction 
of  rank  or  means.  The  official  seats  were  in  the  front 
rows,  and  the  first  row  of  all  consisted  of  sixty-seven 
marble  thrones,  most  of  which  are  still  preserved  in  situ, 
Of  these  sixty-seven,  fifty  belonged — as  the  inscriptions 
show — to  ecclesiastics,  and  the  famous  middle  throne — 
the  best  and  most  conspicuous 2  place  in  the  theatre- 
was  occupied  by  the  priest  of  Dionysus  of  Eleutherse. 

1  Haigh  3,  p.  318.  Both  the  gestures  described  sound  like  a  curious 
anticipation  of  the  gestures  favoured  by  the  performers  of  "  coon-songs  ". 

a  This  was  not  always  an  advantage  when  comedy  held  the  scene. 
There  is  a  delightfully  impudent  passage  in  the  Frogs  (v.  297)  where 
Dionysus  to  escape  a  hobgoblin  appeals  to  his  own  priest  for  protection. 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    81 

Besides  priests,  the  archons,  the  generals,  and  the  ten 
judges  had  special  places,  also  benefactors  of  the  State 
or  their  descendants,  and  the  sons  of  men  who  had  fallen 
in  battle.  Ambassadors  from  abroad,  too,  received  this 
compliment  of  TrpoeSpta  ("  foremost  seat  "). 

Behind  the  dignified  front  circle  of  thrones  rose  tier 
after  tier  of  stone  benches,  all  alike  and  not  marked  off 
into  separate  seats,  so  that  the  audience  must  usually 
have  been  crowded.  They  were  also  cramped,  for  the 
height  of  each  seat  was  but  fifteen  inches.1  Spectators 
brought  with  them  any  cushions  they  needed.  Ad- 
mission to  the  theatre  was  allowed  in  the  first  instance 
to  any  Athenian  citizen.  In  spite  of  the  indecency 
which  was  a  normal 2  feature  of  the  Old  Comedy,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  women  and  boys  were  present  at 
the  shows  both  of  tragedy  and  comedy.  Slaves  and 
foreigners  also  were  admitted,  obtaining  admission,  like 
the  boys  and  women,  through  citizens.  Foreigners,  ex- 
cept the  distinguished  persons  to  whom  proedria  was 
granted,  seem  to  have  been  confined  to  the  extreme  right 
and  left  cerddes,  next  to  the  parodoi.  All  the  seating 
which  has  been  described  dates  from  the  time  of  the 
orator  Lycurgus 3  in  the  fourth  century  ;  during  the  fifth 
Athens  was  content  with  wooden  benches,  called  icria 
(tKpta,  "planks"). 

Admission  was  at  first  free,  but  the  drama  was  so 
popular  that  the  rush  for  seats  caused  much  confusion  ; 
it  is  said  that  the  more  sedulous  would  secure  places  the 
night  before.  In  the  fifth  century  the  custom  arose 
of  charging  for  admission,  and  making  every  one  book 
in  advance,  save  those  dignitaries  whose  places  were 
reserved.  The  price  for  one  day  was  two  obols  (about 
threepence  in  weight,  but  of  much  greater  purchasing 

1  For  a  detailed  description  of  the  seating  see  Haigh  3,  pp.  94-101. 

2  It  is  a  fact  familiar  to  students  of  comparative  religion  that  obscenity 
is  often  a  part  of  ritual.     This  is  true  of  several  Greek  worships,  including 
that  of  Dionysus.     Hence  even  tragedy  retained  its  satyric  complement, 
though  satyric  drama  regularly  showed  obscene  features. 

3  Puchstein  would  date  it  earlier  (end  of  the  fifth  century). 

6 


82  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

power).  At  the  end  of  that  century  this  sum  was  paid 
by  the  State  to  any  citizen  who  claimed  it.  The  money 
allotted  for  this  purpose  was  called  the  "  theoric  "  fund 
(TO  dtwpiKov,  "money  for  the  shows"),  of  which  we 
hear  so  much  in  the  speeches  of  Demosthenes.  By 
his  time  the  system  had  grown  to  a  serious  danger. 
Payments  were  made,  not  only  for  the  original  purpose, 
but  for  all  the  numerous  festivals,  and  a  law  was  actually 
passed  that  anyone  who  proposed  to  apply  the  fund  in 
any  other  way  should  be  put  to  death.  Demosthenes 
represents  the  theoric  fund  and  the  Athenian  affection 
for  it  as  preventing  Athens  from  supplying  sufficient 
forces  to  check  the  growing  menace  from  Philip  of 
Macedonia.  On  paying  in  his  two  obols  the  spectator 
received  a  ticket  of  lead.  The  sums  taken  were  appro- 
priated by  the  lessee  or  architecton  who  in  consideration 
thereof  kept  the  theatre  in  repair. 

As  the  auditorium  was  filled  with  many  thousands  of 
lively  Southerners,  who  had  to  sit  crammed  together 
from  sunrise  till  late  in  the  day  with  no  intermission, 
the  question  of  good  order  might  seem  to  have  been 
a  hopeless  difficulty.  It  was  not  so.  For,  first,  the 
occasion  was  religious,  and  to  use  blows  in  the  theatre 
was  a  capital  crime.  Next,  stewards  (pafi&o<t>6poi, 
"  rod-bearers  ")  were  at  hand  to  keep  order  among  the 
choristers,  who  were  numerous,  seeing  that  each  dithy- 
rambic  chorus  consisted  of  fifty  men.  Finally,  a  good 
deal  of  exuberant  behaviour  was  allowed.  Serious 
disturbance  occasionally  happened :  the  high-spirited 
Alcibiades  once  had  a  bout  at  fisticuffs  with  a  rival 
choregus,  and  the  occasion  of  Demosthenes'  speech 
against  Meidias  was  the  blow  which  Meidias  dealt  the 
orator  when  the  latter  was  choregus. 

Though  an  Athenian  audience  had  no  objection, 
when  comedy  was  played,  to  scenes  which  we  should 
have  supposed  likely  to  strike  them  as  blasphemous, 
they  bitterly  objected  to  any  breach  of  orthodoxy  in 
tragic  drama.  J^schylus  once  narrowly  escaped  death 
because  it  was  thought  that  a  passage  in  his  play  con- 


GREEK  THEATRE  AND  PRODUCTION  OF  PLAYS    83 

stituted  a  revelation  of  the  mysteries.  Euripides,1  too, 
incurred  great  trouble  owing  to  the  opening  lines  of 
Melanippe  the  Wise.  Approval  and  idislike  were  freely 
expressed.  If  the  spectators  admired  a  passage,  shouts 
and  clapping  showed  it :  at  times  they  would  "  encore  " 
a  speech  or  song  with  the  exclamation  av0i<s  ("again  "). 
Still  more  often  do  we  hear  of  their  proneness  to 
"  damn  "  a  bad  play.  Hissing2  was  common,  and  there 
was  a  special  custom  at  Athens  of  kicking  with  the  heels 
upon  the  benches  to  express  disapproval — a  method 
which  must  have  been  effective  in  the  time  of  wooden 
seats.  Playwrights  were  known  to  take  vigorous  means 
to  win  favour.  That  distinguished  writer  of  New 
Comedy,  Philemon,  is  said  to  have  defeated  Menander 
himself  by  securing  a  large  attendance  of  supporters  to 
applaud  his  work,  and  it  is  certain  that  writers  of  the 
Old  Comedy  frequently  directed  their  actors  to  throw 
nuts  and  similar  offerings  among  the  audience.  In 
the  Peace  of  Aristophanes  barley  was  thus  distributed. 
The  spectators  sometimes  replied  in  kind.  Bad  per- 
formers were  pelted  with  fruit,  at  any  rate  in  the 
country,  and  even  stones  were  used  in  extreme  cases. 
The  celebrated  ^Eschines,  during  his  career  as  a  strolling 
tritagonist,  was  nearly  stoned  to  death  by  his  public.3 
But  the  fruit  was  generally  used  in  the  city  itself  for 
another  purpose.  Aristotle  illustrates  a  detail  of  psy- 
chology by  pointing  to  the  fact  that  "  in  the  theatre 
people  who  eat  dessert  do  so  with  most  abandon  when 
the  performers  are  bad  ".* 

Plutarch,  Liber  Amatorius,  756  B,  C. 
*  fKOVpirreiv  ("  to  hiss  off"). 
8  Demosthenes,  De  Falsa  Legatione,  §337. 
4  Ethics,  X,  1175  B. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS 

THE  place  of  yEschylus  in  dramatic  history  has 
been   discussed    in    the    first    chapter.      We 
have  still  to  give  some  account  of  his  seven 
extant  plays  and  of  the  fragments. 

The  SUPPLICES  1  ('I/ceriSes,  "Suppliant  Women  ")  is 
no  doubt  the  earliest  of  these.  The  scene  is  laid  near 
the  sea-coast,  not  far  from  Argos.  The  chorus,  consist- 
ing of  the  fifty  daughters  of  Danaus,  enter,  and  in  their 
opening  song  tell  how  they  have  fled  from  Egypt  to 
escape  marriage  with  their  cousins,  the  fifty  sons  of 
SEgyptus.  These  suitors  have  pursued  them  overseas, 
but  they  call  upon  Zeus,  who  through  lo  is  their  an- 
cestor, to  defend  them.  Danaus,  their  father,  urges 
them  to  take  refuge  upon  the  steps  of  the  altar.3  This 
they  do,  becoming  suppliants  of  the  State-deities  and 
acquiring  a  claim  upon  the  citizens.  The  King  of 
Argos  enters  ;  to  him  the  women  make  their  appeal. 
He  replies  that  he  must  consult  the  national  assembly 
before  facing  the  possibility  of  war  with  the  Egyptians  ; 
meanwhile  he  sends  Danaus  into  the  city  to  engage 
the  compassion  of  the  Argives.  After  another  song  by 
the  chorus,  in  which  they  relate  the  wanderings  of  lo 
and  her  final  peace,  Danaus  returns  with  the  news  that 
the  Argive  assembly  is  unanimous  in  championing  the 

1  Date  :  uncertain.  Professor  Tucker  thinks  the  year  492-1  probable  ; 
/Eschylus  was  then  thirty-three  years  old.  Historical  considerations  are 
here  of  doubtful  value,  but  the  technique  of  the  play  seems  to  prove  be- 
yond question  that  it  is  an  early  work. 

Arrangement:  protagonist,  Danaus,  Egyptian  herald;  deutera- 
gonist,  King  of  Argos. 

3  In  the  centre  of  the  orchestra,  as  always. 

84 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  85 

Suppliants  ;  the  women  burst  forth  into  lyrical  blessings 
upon  the  land.  Danaus,  who  has  been  upon  the  watch, 
announces  the  approach  of  the  hostile  ships  ;  he  com- 
forts his  shrinking  daughters,  goes  to  fetch  help,  and 
does  not  return  until  the  danger  is  over.1  After  a 
terrified  lyric,  the  Egyptian  herald  appears,  accompanied 
no  doubt  by  warriors ;  he  harshly  bids  them  go  to  the 
ship  and  submit  to  their  masters.  They  refuse.  He 
is  on  the  point  of  dragging  them  away  when  the  King 
enters,  rebukes  the  herald,  and  defies  the  power  of 
Egypt.  The  intruder  departs  with  threats  of  war. 
Danaus  returns,  and  with  his  daughters  is  given  lodg- 
ing within  the  city-walls.  The  chorus  end  the  drama 
with  an  ode  voicing  their  fear  of  war  and  oppression. 

Such  a  close  evidently  implies  that  the  story  was 
continued  in  another  work,  and  it  has  been  conjectured 
that  the  Egyptians  and  the  Danaides  ("  Daughters  of 
Danaus  ")  formed  the  second  and  third  parts  of  the 
trilogy.  Scarcely  anything  of  these  two  plays  has  been 
preserved,  but  there  is  good  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
Egyptians  were  victorious,  that  the  daughters  of  Danaus 
were  compelled  to  marry  their  ferocious  suitors,  and 
that  on  the  command  of  their  father  each  slew  her 
husband  on  the  wedding-night.  Hypermnestra  alone 
spared  her  lover,  by  name  Lynceus.  It  seems  that  she 
was  put  on  her  trial  for  this  disobedience  and  was  saved 
by  the  advocacy  of  Aphrodite,  who  thus  foreshadows  the 
Apollo  of  the  Eumenides.  The  satyric  play  was  per- 
haps the  Amymoiie  ;  this  was  the  name  of  one  of  the 
Danaides,  who  was  delivered  from  a  satyr  by  Poseidon. 
Viewed  not  historically,  but  aesthetically,  especially  by 
a  reader  already  familiar  with  the  Oresteia,  the  play 
must  be  confessed  bald  and  monotonous.  Many  of 
yEschylus'  most  splendid  attributes,  it  is  true,  are  to  be 
discerned,  but  their  fire  too  often  sinks  into  smoulder- 
ing grimness.  The  only  really  fine  passages  are 
those  portions  of  the  lyrics  which  bear  the  impress  of 

1  Danaus  is  necessarily  dismissed  so  that  the  actor  who  impersonates 
him  may  appear  as  the  Egyptian  herald. 


86  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

the  poet's  masculine  and  profound  theology.  Such 
strictures,  however,  are  merely  one  way  of  saying  that 
the  Supplices  is  an  early  work.  It  would  be  fairer 
(were  it  only  possible)  to  compare  it  with  the  drama  of 
Phrynichus  rather  than  with  the  Agamemnon.  Here, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time,  we  have  a  genuinely  dramatic 
situation — the  collision  between  the  king  and  the  herald. 
There  is  little  characterization.  The  chorus  are  simply 
distressed  damsels  (save  for  their  vivid  and  strong  re- 
ligious faith),  the  king  is  simply  a  magnanimous  and 
wary  monarch,  the  herald  simply  a  "  myrmidon ". 
Danaus,  however,  shows  some  interesting  traits.  He 
is  extremely  sententious  and  rejoices  in  the  fact :  "  In- 
scribe this  on  your  hearts  beside  the  many  other  precepts 
of  your  father  written  there".1  His  exhortation2  to 
chaste  behaviour,  though  long  and  (as  his  daughters 
assure  him)  unnecessary,  is,  albeit  corrupt  textually, 
one  of  the  most  striking  passages  in  the  play.  But  one 
feels  that  characterization  is  perhaps  less  needed  in  a 
work  which,  literally  from  the  first  word,  is  filled  with 
the  name  of  God,  Zeus,3  the  ancestor  of  the  Danaids, 
the  lord  of  the  universe,  the  guardian  of  right.  "  And 
whensoever  it  is  decreed  by  nod  of  Zeus  that  a  thing 
be  brought  to  fullness,  it  falls  not  prostrate,  but  on  its 
feet.  Yea,  through  thicket  and  shadow  stretch  the 
paths  of  his  decrees,  that  no  thoughts  can  spy  them 
out."  Equally  majestic  is  the  language  concerning 
that  other  Zeus  5  who  judges  the  sins  of  men  in  Hades. 
Finally,  though  the  thought  and  diction  are  in  the  main 
stark  if  dignified,  a  change  comes  over  the  play  before 
the  end  :  we  get  a  little  "  atmosphere ".  Danaus 
already  fears  personal  enemies  (v.  1008),  and  the  ar- 
rangements for  lodging  the  suppliants  show  a  tinge  of 
domesticity. 

The  PERS^E*  (nc/oo-cu,  "Men  of  Persia"),  though 

1  w.  991-2.  a  vv.  994-1013. 

3  Ztvs  (or  words  derived  therefrom)  occurs  about  sixty  times. 

4  vv.  91-5  (Professor  Tucker's  translation).  8vv.  230-1. 

8  Date  :  472  B.C.     Arrangement:  protagonist,  Atossa  and  Xerxes; 
deuteragonist,  Messenger  and  Darius, 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  87 

perhaps  twenty  years  later,  comes  next  among  the  sur- 
viving plays.  The  action  takes  place  before  the  palace 
of  Xerxes.  It  opens  with  a  song  from  the  chorus,  who 
represent  aged  councillors  of  the  Persian  Empire.  They 
describe  the  departure  of  the  host  which  is  to  conquer 
Greece,  and  their  own  anxiety  for  news.  Atossa, 
widow  of  Darius  and  mother  of  Xerxes,  enters,  dis- 
tressed by  an  ill-omened  dream.  The  councillors  discuss 
this  portent  and  the  prospects  of  victory.  A  mes- 
senger arrives  who  announces  the  complete  overthrow 
of  the  ."barbarians".  The  queen  speedily  rallies  from 
her  grief,  learns  that  her  son  himself  is  safe,  and  hears 
the  narrative  of  Salamis  and  the  flight  of  the  Persians 
back  to  Asia.  She  determines  to  offer  supplications  to 
Heaven  and  retires  to  fetch  the  materials  of  sacrifice ; 
the  chorus  pour  forth  a  lyric  lament  and  deplore  the  loss 
of  Darius  the  conqueror.  Atossa  returns  bearing  the 
libation  which  she  offers  to  the  shade  of  Darius,  while 
the  chorus  invoke  the  dead  king,  praying  him  to  appear 
and  give  counsel.  In  answer,  the  ghost  of  Darius  rises 
from  his  tomb.  He  learns  the  evil  tidings,  laments  the 
impious  folly  of  his  son,  and  foretells  the  coming  disaster 
of  Plataea.  After  the  shade  has  sunk  back  into  the 
tomb,  and  Atossa  has  gone  to  meet  Xerxes,1  the  elders 
sing  of  Persia's  greatness  under  Darius.  Finally,  Xerxes 
appears,  plunged  in  despair.  Amid  the  antiphonal  wail- 
ings  of  the  king  and  his  councillors  the  tragedy  ends. 

The  scholiast  says  that  "  ./Eschylus  won  the  prize 
in  the  archonship  of  Menon,  with  Phineus,  Persa, 
Glaucus  of  Potnice  and  Prometheus"?  This  tetralogy 
seems  (to  judge  from  the  titles  and  the  fragments)  to 
have  been  a  collection  of  plays  which  had  no  relation  of 
subject-matter.  Interesting  to  the  historian  as  the  only 
extant  tragedy  dealing  with  a  contemporary  subject,  the 
Perscz  also  wins  the  highest  admiration  as  a  piece  of 
literature  not  unworthy  of  its  theme.  The  muscular 

1  The  actor  who  presents  the  queen  has  now  to  present  the  king. 
a  This  was  a  satyric  play,  and  must  not  be  confused  with  the  extant 
Prometheus, 


88  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

and  majestic  diction  of  the  speeches,  the  noble  sweep 
of  the  lyrics,  the  colossal  dignity  of  the  characters,  the 
picturesqueness  and  vigour  which  make  the  story  of 
Salamis  one  of  the  greatest  passages  even  in  ^schylus 
—these  are  characteristics  of  the  poet  which  the  Sup- 
plices  presents  only  in  germ.  But  the  noblest  feature 
of  the  whole  is  the  manner  in  which  yEschylus  has  faced 
his  chief  obstacle.  To  dramatize  the  heroic  spirit  and 
overwhelming  success  of  Athens  in  the  presence  of 
Athenians — was  this  an  easy  task  ?  Nothing  could  be 
more  cloying  at  the  moment,  more  thin  and  unsatisfying 
to  the  after-reflection,  v^schylus  rises  clear  above  all 
this.  First,  he  places  the  scene  not  in  Athens,  but  be- 
fore the  gates  of  the  palace  at  Susa  ;  that  dignity  which 
elsewhere  in  Greek  tragedy  is  secured  by  remoteness  in 
time,  is  here  obtained  by  remoteness  in  space.1  The 
whole  incident  is  held  at  arm's  length  that  it  may  be 
viewed  with  soberness,  and  as  a  whole  in  perspective. 
Next,  it  has  often  been  observed  that  on  the  one  hand 
he  chronicles  a  host  of  Asiatic  nobles  while  on  the  other 
not  a  single  Greek — not  even  Themistocles — is  named. 
Both  these  facts  spring  from  the  same  source,  ^schylus, 
it  cannot  be  repeated  too  often,  was  a  deeply  religious 
man.  When  he  takes  it  in  hand  to  dramatize  an  event 
of  recent  history  his  instinct  impels  him,  just  as  infallibly 
as  if  he  were  writing  of  Heracles  or  Prometheus,  to  de- 
scribe occurrences  not  in  the  language  of  politics  or  of 
tactics,  but  of  theology.  Athens  has  been  but  the  in- 
strument of  Heaven  ;  Persia  has  fallen,  not  through  the 
brawn  of  oarsmen  or  the  skill  of  captains,  but  through 
the  blasphemous  infatuation  of  her  prince  and  the  wrath 
of  God  following  thereupon. 

O  God,  thy  arm  was  here  ; 
And  not  to  us,  but  to  thy  arm  alone, 
Ascribe  we  all  !     When,  without  stratagem, 
But  in  plain  shock  and  even  play  of  battle, 
Was  ever  known  so  great  and  little  loss 
On  one  part  and  on  th'  other  ?     Take  it,  God, 
For  it  is  none  but  thine  !  a 

1  See  Patin,  Eschyle,  p-  211,  8  Henry  V,  IV,  viii, 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  89 

He  is  little  concerned  with  that  play  of  human  psychology 
on  the  Greek  side,  which  forms  so  brilliant  a  page  of 
Herodotus.  Even  when  he  narrates  that  trick  by  which 
the  conflict  was  precipitated,  the  false  message  from 
Themistocles  to  Xerxes,  nothing  is  said  of  the  reasons 
for  sending  it.  Though  the  antecedent  "  facts "  are 
known,  yet  he  chooses  to  tell  what  he  does  indeed  regard 
as  the  truth,  that  the  whole  error  of  the  king  came  from 
"a  fiend  or  evil  spirit,"  and  that  he  fell  into  the  trap  be- 
cause "  he  perceived  not  the  guile  of  the  Greek  nor  the 
spite  of  Heaven  ".*  On  the  Greek  side,  then,  "  the  crea- 
tures of  a  day  "  are  lost  in  the  vision  of  eternal  righteous- 
ness. But  the  poet  has  no  such  reason  to  obliterate  the 
mighty  names  of  Persia.  Almost  the  whole  effect  of  them 
is  for  us  lost ;  but  to  an  Athenian  ear  these  barbaric  poly- 
syllables must  have  sounded  with  all  the  pomp  of  an 
ancient  chivalry,  the  waves  of  the  boundless  and  terrible 
Orient  descending  in  deluge  upon  the  tiny  states  of 
Hellas.  But  the  billows  at  their  highest  had  been  stayed 
and  had  sunk  ;  the  appalling  roll  of  warlike  titles  was 
changed  into  a  proclamation  of  glory — but  not  the  glory 
of  Greece.  No  Greek  name  is  immortalized  in  this  play, 
which  resounds  at  every  moment  with  the  name  of  God. 
The  SEVEN  AGAINST  THEBES  2  (Ot  'ETTTO,  eVt  ©17/3019) 
was  produced  in  467  B.C.  and  deals  with  the  fratricidal 
quarrel  of  the  sons  of  GEdipus.  Eteocles,  the  elder,  had 
become  King  of  Thebes  and  expelled  his  brother 
Polynices.  The  latter  with  six  comrades-in-arms  and  an 
host  led  by  Adrastus,  King  of  Argos,  attacked  the  city. 
The  seven  invading  champions  were  met  at  the  seven 
gates  by  as  many  Theban  warriors.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
an  open  space  in  the  town.  A  messenger  brings  to  Ete- 
ocles the  news  that  the  enemy  are  on  the  point  of  assault- 
ing the  walls.  The  chorus,  consisting  of  Theban  maidens, 
enter,  and  in  a  vivid  lyric  express  their  frantic  terror. 

1  vv.  361-2. 

2  Arrangement :  protagonist :  Eteocles  and  Antigone  ;  deuteragonist, 
messenger,  and  herald.     The  part  of  Ismene  was  taken  by  a  member  of 
the  chorus, 


90  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Eteocles  attempts  to  calm  them,  urging  that  their  out- 
cries will  demoralize  the  citizens  ;  but  soon  they  burst 
forth  again  into  wild  forebodings.  Then  follows  a  long 
scene  in  which  the  messenger  describes  the  seven  heroes 
who  are  to  attack  at  the  seven  gates.  As  each  is  de- 
scribed Eteocles  allots  one  of  his  comrades  for  defence. 
The  seventh  enemy  is  Polynices,  the  king 'sown  brother  ; 
Eteocles,  spurred  on  by  the  curse  of  his  house,  declares 
that  he  will  himself  confront  Polynices.  He  rushes 
away  and  the  maidens  lament  the  frightful  story  of 
CEdipus'  curse.  The  messenger  returns  with  the  news 
that  the  invaders  have  been  routed  and  that  the  brothers 
have  fallen  by  each  other's  hand.  After  the  chorus  have 
lamented  this  crime,  the  corpses  are  brought  forward, 
accompanied  by  Antigone  and  Ismene,  sisters  of  the 
dead,  who  utter  an  antiphonal  dirge.  They  are  inter- 
rupted by  a  herald  who  proclaims  the  decree  of  the 
"  people's  councillors  ".  Eteocles  is  to  be  honourably 
buried  ;  his  brother  is  to  be  left  to  the  dogs  and  birds  of 
prey.  Antigone  defies  the  decree  and  declares  that  she 
will  bury  Polynices.  The  chorus  divide  into  two  parties, 
one  supporting  Antigone,  the  other  giving  obedience  to 
the  State. 

This  tragedy  won  the  prize.  The  trilogy  consisted 
of  Laius,  CEdipus,  the  Seven,  with  the  Sphinx  as  satyric 
play.  Aristeas  and  Polyphradmon,  the  sons  of  Pratinas 
and  Phrynichus  respectively,  were  second  and  third. 
Very  little  is  known  about  the  companion  plays. 
The  Lams  contained  a  reference  to  the  exposure  of  the 
infant  CEdipus  ;  the  CEdipus  described  the  death  of  Laius. 

The  Seven  is  a  magnificently  vigorous  and  graphic 
presentment  of  war  in  one  of  its  aspects.  As  such  it 
is  eulogized  by  Aristophanes,  who  puts  into  the  mouth 
of  yEschylus  the  boast  that  he  "composed  a  drama  full 
of  the  War-God — my  Seven  against  Thebes  ".*  The  chief 
excellences  are  the  first  chorus  and  the  celebrated  Choos- 
ing of  the  Champions.  This  latter  contained  the  best- 

1  Frogs •,  1021, 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  91 

known  passage  in  the  play,  where  the  messenger  says  of 
Amphiaraus  :  —  l 

crij/Lia  8*  OVK  (irr\v  KVK\U> 
ov  yap  SoKf'tv  aptoToy,  dXX'  dvai  dt\(i, 
8ia  (ppevos  Kaprrovfj.(vos, 


His  buckler  bore  no  blazon  ;  for  he  seeks 
Not  to  seem  great,  but  to  be  great  indeed, 
Reaping  the  deep-ploughed  furrow  of  his  soul 
Wherefrom  the  harvest  of  good  counsel  springs. 

As  these  lines  were  declaimed  in  the  theatre,  Plutarch2 
tells  us,  every  one  turned  and  gazed  at  Aristides 
the  Just.  The  first  half  of  the  play  is  in  strictness  not 
dramatic  3  at  all  —  a  merely  static  presentment  of  the 
situation  :  a  city  in  a  state  of  siege,  panic  among  the 
women,  resolution  in  the  mind  of  the  general.  The 
later  portion  gives  us  decisive  action.  The  King  rushes 
to  his  fratricidal  duel,  spurred  on  by  the  invisible  curse  ; 
but  even  here  there  is  no  dramatic  conflict  of  personalities 
like  the  altercation  between  the  brothers  in  the  Pkce- 
nisscz  of  Euripides.  Such  a  collision  is,  however,  pro- 
vided at  the  very  end,  where  Antigone  defies  the  State. 

As  regards  the  PROMETHEUS  VINCTUS  (UpopyQevs 
Seer/Ham?  9,  "  Prometheus  Bound  ")  we  are  in  doubt  as 
to  the  date,  the  arrangement  of  the  cast,  and  the  other 
parts  of  the  trilogy. 

Concerning  the  date,  we  know  that  the  play  was 
written  after  475  B.C.,  the  year  in  which  occurred  that 
eruption  of  Etna  described  by  Prometheus  (vv.  363-72). 
Further,  it  is  usually  regarded  as  later  than  the  Seven 
owing  to  the  increased  preponderance  of  dialogue  over 
lyrics.  Also,  the  supposition  that  three  actors  are  required 
has  led  some  scholars  to  believe  that  the  Prometheus 
belongs  to  the  period  when  Sophocles  had  introduced  a 

1  vv.  5  9  1  -  4.  2  L  ife  of  A  ristides,  III. 

3  Dr.  Verrall,  however,  in  his  Introduction  (pp.  xiv,  xv)  sees  technical 
drama  of  the  highest  kind  in  the  choosing  of  the  champions.  As  the 
Theban  warriors  are  told  off  one  by  one,  the  chorus  (and  audience)  see 
with  ever-increasing  horror  that  Eteocles  must  be  left  as  the  opponent  of 
Polynices, 


92  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

third  actor,  and  so  to  place  it  in  the  last  part  of  the 
poet's  life.1  The  static  nature  of  the  drama  might  seem  to 
forbid  such  a  view,  but  possibly  it  formed  the  centre  of 
the  trilogy,  the  most  likely  place  for  an  equilibrium  of 
the  tragic  forces.  And  the  theological  basis  of  the  whole 
series  is  so  profound,  that  an  approximation  in  date  to 
the  Oresteia  is  not  unreasonable.  On  the  whole,  then, 
the  Prometheus  may  be  conjecturally  assigned  to  about 
the  year  465  B.C. 

As  for  the  division  of  the  parts  among  the  actors,  we 
find  in  the  opening  scene  three3  persons  engaged,  Prome- 
theus, Hephaestus,  and  Cratos  ("  Strength  ").  Prome- 
theus, however,  does  not  utter  a  word  until  his  tormentors 
have  retired,  and  it  has  been  held  that  only  two  actors  are 
needed  here  (as  in  the  rest  of  the  work).  On  this  view, 
Prometheus  would  be  represented  by  a  lay-figure,  either 
Hephaestus  or  Cratos  would  return  unseen,  delivering 
the  later  speeches  of  Prometheus  from  behind  the  figure, 
through  a  mouth-piece  in  the  head.  But  as  there  was 
no  curtain  in  the  theatre,  it  would  be  necessary  for  the 
executioners  to  carry  the  lay-figure  forth  in  view  of  the 
audience  before  the  action  began.  The  true  objection 
to  this  is  not  its  absurdity ;  an  audience  will  tolerate 
much  awkwardness  in  stage-management,  if  only  it  is 
accustomed  to  such  conventions.  But  it  would  scarcely 
have  harmed  the  play  if  the  poet  had  dispensed  with 
Cratos ;  the  actor  thus  disengaged  could  have  im- 
personated Prometheus  from  the  beginning.  That 
yEschylus  saw  this  possibility  cannot  be  doubted  ;  there- 
fore he  did  not  feel  bound  to  use  a  lay-figure  ;  therefore 
he  did  not,  and  we  must  assume  that  he  employed  three 
actors. 

Two  other  tragedies  were  associated  with  this, 
Prometheus  the  Fire-bringer  (Ilpo«.7i#eu9  Trupc&dpos)  and 

O  \        I        I       I  lit/ 


1  Miiller-Heitz  (Griechische  Litteraturgeschichte,  ii.  p.  88)  point  out, 
also,  that  this  play  needs  more  elaborate  machinery  than  any  other  extant 
drama.     But  it  may  well  be  doubted  whether  all  the  effects  mentioned  by 
the  poet  are  realized. 

2  Bia  ("  Violence  "),  also  present,  is  a  mute, 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  93 

Prometheus  Unbound  (npopyOevs  Avo/xevos).  That  the 
latter  followed  the  extant  play  is  of  course  certain,  but 
the  position  of  the  Fire-bringer  is  doubtful.  One 
would  naturally  place  it  first  in  the  trilogy  :  the  offence, 
the  punishment,  the  reconciliation.  But,  say  some,  in 
that  case  one  can  hardly  imagine  how  ^Eschylus  wrote 
the  first  tragedy  without  anticipating  a  great  part  of  the 
second — the  noble  account  which  Prometheus  gives  of 
the  victory  of  Zeus,  his  own  offence,  and  the  blessings 
it  conferred  upon  men.  Hence  arises  a  theory  that  the 
Fire-bringer  was  the  last  play  of  the  trilogy  in  which 
the  Titan,  reconciled  to  Zeus,  became  a  local  deity  of 
Athens,  the  giver  of  fire.  But  this  view  has  been  dis- 
credited by  evidence1  that  there  is  not  enough  matter, 
remaining  for  the  Fire-bringer  after  the  close  of  the 
Prometheus  Unbound.  These  two  difficulties  about  the 
position  of  the  Fire-bringer  have  induced  some  to 
identify  it  with  that  Prometheus  which  we  know  as  the 
satyric  play  appended  to  the  Persce  trilogy,  and  to 
suppose  that  ^Eschylus  told  the  story  in  two  plays  only, 
the  present  trilogy  being  completed  by  a  tragedy  un- 
connected with  the  subject.  The  best  view  is  that  the 
Fire-bringer  was  the  first  play  ;  the  title  suggests  that  it 
dealt  with  the  transgression  which  led  to  the  punish- 
ment portrayed  in  the  extant  drama ;  and  the  objection 
as  to  overlapping  of  the  Fire-bringtrzxA  the  Prometheus 
Vinctus  is  illusory. 

The  scene  is  a  desolate  gorge  in  Scythia.  Hephaes- 
tus, the  God  of  Fire,  with  Cratos  and  Bia,  Strength  and 
Violence,  servants  of  Zeus,  appear,  dragging  with  them 
the  Titan  Prometheus.  Hephaestus  nails  the  prisoner 
to  the  rocks  under  the  superintendence  of  Cratos;  he 
has  little  liking  for  his  task,  but  Cratos  rebukes  his 
tenderness  for  the  malefactor  who  has  braved  Heaven 
in  order  to  succour  mankind.  At  length  Prometheus  is 
left  to  his  lonely  agony.  Hitherto  he  has  been  silent, 
but  now  he  voices  his  pain  and  indignation  to  the  sea 

1  See  H.  Weil's  masterly  Note  sur  le  Promethee  (FEschyle  (Le 
drame  antique,  pp.  86-92). 


94  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

and  sky  and  earth  around  him.  His  soliloquy  breaks 
off  as  he  catches  the  sound  of  wings,  and  the  chorus 
enter — a  band  of  sea-nymphs  who  have  been  startled 
from  their  cave  by  the  clatter  of  iron.  They  strive  to 
comfort  him,  and  he  tells  how  by  his  counsel  Zeus  was 
enabled  to  defeat  the  Titans.  Then,  consolidating  his 
empire,  the  god  determined  to  destroy  mankind  and 
create  a  new  race.  Prometheus,  in  love  of  men,  saved 
them  from  destruction  and  bestowed  upon  them  the 
gift  of  fire,  which  he  stole  from  Heaven  and  which 
has  been  the  beginning  of  civilization.  At  this  point 
Oceanus  enters,  riding  upon  a  four-legged  bird  ;  he  is  a 
Titan  who  stood  aloof  from  the  conflict  with  Zeus.  An 
amiable  but  obsolete  person,  he  wishes  to  release 
Prometheus  (without  running  into  danger  himself)  and 
urges  submission.  The  prisoner  listens  with  disdainful 
courtesy,  refuses  the  advice,  and  hints  to  Oceanus  that 
he  had  better  not  associate  with  a  malefactor.  His 
visitor  soon  bustles  away,  and  the  chorus  sing  how  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth  mourn  over  the  torments  of 
their  deliverer.  Prometheus  then  tells  of  the  arts  by 
which  he  has  taught  man  to  alleviate  his  misery.  The 
Nymphs  ask  if  he  has  no  hope  of  release  himself ;  he 
hints  at  the  possible  downfall  of  Zeus.  Another  lyrical 
passage  hymns  the  power  of  that  god  and  expresses 
surprise  at  the  contumacy  of  the  Titan.  Then  appears 
lo,  the  heifer-maiden,  who  at  the  request  of  the  chorus 
describes  her  strange  ill-fortune.  Beloved  of  Zeus,  she 
has  incurred  the  wrath  of  his  queen,  Hera,  who  has 
changed  her  into  a  heifer  and  sent  her  roaming  wildly 
over  the  earth  pursued  by  a  gadfly.  Prometheus  pro- 
phesies her  future  wanderings,  which  shall  end  in  Egypt. 
He  speaks  more  clearly  of  the  fall  of  Zeus,  who  is  pre- 
paring to  wed  one  who  shall  bear  a  child  greater  than 
his  father.  Then  he  narrates  the  story  of  lo's  course 
up  to  the  present  hour,  ending  with  the  prophecy 
that  in  Egypt  she  shall  bear  to  Zeus  a  son  named 
Epaphus.  He  speaks  of  the  history  of  this  man's  line, 
particularly  of  one  "  courageous,  famed  for  archery  "  who 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  95 

shall  release  Prometheus.  lo,  in  a  sudden  paroxysm, 
rushes  from  the  scene.  The  chorus  sing  of  the  dangers 
which  lie  in  union  with  the  Gods.  Prometheus  again 
foretells  the  overthrow  of  Zeus  by  his  own  son.  Hermes, 
the  messenger  of  Zeus,  enters  demanding  that  the 
prisoner  reveal  the  fatal  secret.  Prometheus  treats  his 
message  with  defiance.  Hermes  warns  him  of  still 
more  fell  tortures:  the  "winged  hound  of  Zeus"  will 
come  each  day  to  tear  his  liver  ;  a  convulsion  of  the  earth 
will  hurl  him  into  Hades.  The  nymphs  again  urge  sub- 
mission, but  when  the  messenger  declares  that  unless 
they  leave  Prometheus  they  will  perchance  suffer  too, 
they  haughtily  refuse  to  listen.  Amid  an  upheaval  of 
the  whole  of  Nature,  the  Titan,  still  defiant,  sinks  from 
sight. 

The  Prometheus  Vinctus  has  impressed  all  genera- 
tions of  readers  with  wonder  and  delight ;  in  particular 
it  has  inspired  poetry  only  less  magnificent  than  itself. 
Shelley's  Prometheus  Unbound  is  a  gorgeous  amplifica- 
tion of  its  spiritual  and  material  features.  The  sinister 
and  terrific  figure  which  dominates  the  early  part  of 
Paradise  Lost  is  but  Prometheus  strayed  at  an  untoward 
hour  into  Christian  mythology.  Again,  this  play  is  the 
noblest  surviving  example  of  the  purely  ^schylean 
manner.  The  Oresteia  is  greater,  perhaps,  certainly 
more  interesting  to  us ;  but  there  ^Eschylus  has  re- 
acted to  the  spirit  of  Sophocles.  Here,  the  stark  hau- 
teur of  the  Supplices  has  developed  into  a  desolate 
magnificence.  The  lyrics  which,  since  the  Seven,  have 
again  dwindled  in  size,  have  yet  grown  in  beauty,  variety, 
and  characterization.  On  the  other  side,  there  is  a 
development  of  the  dialogue  which  is  amazing.  Long 
speeches  are  still  the  rule,  but  line-by-line  conversations 
are  frequent.  Characters  in  the  Supplices  and  the  Seven 
talk  as  if  blank-verse  dialogue  were  a  strange  and 
difficult  art — as  indeed  it  was  till  ^Eschylus  forged  it 
into  shape.  Throughout,  whether  in  lengthy  speeches 
or  in  conversation,  the  iambic  metre  has  found  a  grace 
and  suppleness  which  is  too  often  ignored  by  those 


96  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

who  come  to  the  Prometheits  fresh  from  the  Medea  or 
the  CEdipus  Tyrannus.  Above  all,  the  maturity  of 
^Eschylus1  poetic  strength  is  to  be  seen  in  the  terrific 
perspectives  which  he  brings  before  us — perspectives 
of  time,  as  the  voice  of  the  tortured  prophet  carries 
us  down  a  vista  of  centuries  through  the  whole  history 
of  lo's  race  to  the  man  of  destiny  ;  perspectives  of 
scenery,  as  the  eye  of  the  Ocean-Nymphs  from  the 
summit  of  earth  gazes  down  upon  the  tribes  of  men, 
horde  behind  horde  fading  into  the  distance,  all  raising 
lament  for  the  sorrows  of  their  saviour  ;  perspectives  of 
thought,  as  the  exultant  history  of  civilization  leaps  from 
the  lips  of  him  who  dies  hourly  through  untold  years  to 
found  and  uphold  it,  telling  how  that  creeping  victim  of 
his  own  helplessness  and  the  disdain  of  Heaven  goes 
from  weakness  to  strength  and  from  strength  to 
triumph. 

No  less  wonderful  is  the  strictly  dramatic  economy 
of  the  play.  The  action  is  slight.  Prometheus  works 
no  more ;  it  is  his  part  to  endure.  All  the  secondary 
characters  act  as  a  foil  to  bring  the  central  figure  into 
massive  relief.  Each  has  some  touch  of  Prometheus  : 
Hephaestus,  pity  without  self-sacrifice ;  Cratos,  strength 
without  reflection;  the  Nymphs,  tenderness  without 
force ;  Oceanus,  common-sense  without  dignity ;  lo, 
sensibility  to  suffering  without  the  vision  which  learns 
the  lesson  of  pain  ;  Hermes,  the  power  to  serve  without 
perception  of  the  secret  of  sovereignty.  Most  essential 
of  all  these  is  lo.  The  only  human  participant  in  the 
action,  she  reminds  us  that  the  hand  of  Zeus  has  been 
heavy  upon  innocent  mortals  as  well  as  rebel  gods,  and 
thus  gives  fresh  justification  to  the  wrath  of  Prometheus. 
Still  more,  she  is  vital  to  the  whole  trilogy.  As 
Hephaestus  links  the  Fire-bringer  to  the  second  play,  so 
does  she  join  the  second  play  to  the  Prometheus  Un- 
bound. It  is  her  descendant  Heracles  who  after  thirteen 
generations  will  free  Prometheus  and  reconcile  him  to 
Zeus  ;  the  hero  of  the  last  drama  is  brought  in  a  sense 
upon  the  scene  in  the  person  of  his  ancestress.  Prome- 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  97 

theus  himself  suggests  to  us  the  thought  of  Christ ;  and 
yet  (as  has  been  said)  the  Satan  of  Milton  is  like  him 
too.  This  double  kinship  is  made  possible  by  the  con- 
ception of  Zeus  which  here  obtains.  Under  the  sceptre 
of  a  god  who  hates  mankind  it  is  possible  for  the  saviour 
of  men  to  be  a  rebel  and  an  outcast.  Right  or  wrong, 
the  Titan  is  godlike  in  his  goodness,  his  wisdom,  his 
courage.  At  one  point  only  does  his  deity  show  a  flaw  ; 
he  endures  his  pangs  not  as  a  god,  but  as  a  man ;  he 
agonizes,  he  laments  his  pains,  he  utters  exclamations  of 
fear.  Rightly,  for  if  the  actors  in  this  world-drama  are 
immortal,  the  spectators  are  not.  To  have  portrayed 
Prometheus  as  facing  his  punishment  without  a  quiver 
would  have  been  perhaps  sounder  theology,  but  worse 
drama ;  the  human  audience  must  be  made  to  under- 
stand something  at  least  of  these  pangs,  or  the  greatness 
of  the  sacrifice  will  elude  them.  A  parallel  on  which 
we  must  not  dilate  cannot  escape  the  reader.  One 
strange  outcome  of  his  rebellion  is  generally  overlooked. 
Zeus  had  wished  to  destroy  mankind  and  create  a  new 
race.  That  is,  he  meant  to  treat  men  as  he  treated  the 
Titans — or  would  have  treated  them  had  they  been 
mortal.  Prometheus  thwarted  this  plan,  so  that  we 
men  are  a  survival  of  that  pre-moral  world  which  the 
new  ruler  supersedes.  We  are  the  younger  brothers  of 
the  Titans  and  (so  to  put  it)  have  all  survived  the  Flood. 
Our  pettiness  and  futility  condemned  us  in  the  eyes  of 
Zeus,  who  wished  for  progress  ;  but  Prometheus  loved 
us  in  spite  of  our  miserable  failings,  and  so  insisted  on 
carrying  us  over  into  the  new  and  nobler  world  at  the 
cost  of  his  own  age-long  agony. 

The  basic  question  must  be  briefly  discussed — the 
relation  of  Prometheus  to  the  new  King  of  Heaven. 
Zeus  is  here  described  as  a  youthful  tyrant,  blind  to 
all  rights  and  interests  save  the  security  of  his  recent 
conquest.  This  cannot  have  been  the  picture  presented 
by  the  whole  trilogy.  Not  only  is  enough  known  of 
^Eschylus'  religious  views  to  make  such  a  theory  im- 
possible ;  though  the  Prometheus  Unbound  is  lost  we 

7 


98  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

know  the  story  in  outline.  Heracles  in  his  wanderings 
came  upon  Prometheus,  now  released  from  Hades, 
but  still  chained  to  his  rock  and  gnawed  by  the  vulture. 
The  hero  slew  the  bird  with  an  arrow,  and  procured 
the  release  of  Prometheus  by  inducing  the  wounded 
Centaur  Chiron  to  go  down  to  death  in  his  place,  and 
by  reconciling  the  Titan  to  Zeus,  who  promised  to 
free  him  on  hearing  the  secret  of  the  fatal  marriage.1 
Prometheus,  to  commemorate  his  captivity,  assumed 
a  ring  of  iron.  The  authority  of  the  King  of  Gods 
was  thus  for  ever  established.  It  is  only  in  a  different 
atmosphere  that  any  inconsistency  can  be  felt.  For 
^schylus  there  was  a  progress  in  the  history  of  Heaven 
as  in  the  civilization  of  earth.  Even  Zeus  in  the  early 
days  of  his  dominion  seeks  to  rule  by  might  divorced 
from  wisdom,  a  severance  typified  by  his  feud  with 
Prometheus.  He  has  his  lesson  to  learn  like  all  others  ; 
if  he  will  not  govern  with  the  help  of  law,  bowing 
to  Fate,  then  the  hope  of  the  Universe  is  vain  and 
the  blind  forces  of  unguided  Nature,  the  half-quelled 
Titans,  will  bring  chaos  back.  But  youthful  and 
harsh  as  he  is,  his  will  has  a  moral  foundation,  unlike 
theirs  ;  and  so  perhaps  it  is  that  Prometheus  cannot 
but  exclaim  "I  sinned  "in  opposing  that  will.  Upon 
the  reconciliation  between  Zeus  and  his  antagonist, 
Prometheus  became  a  local  Attic  deity  and  no  more. 
That  eternal  wisdom  which  he  embodied  is  mys- 
teriously assimilated  into  the  soul  of  Zeus.  This  is  the 
consummation ;  omnipotence  and  omniscience  are  at 
one. 

We  arrive  finally  at  the  trilogy  which  bears  the 
name  ORESTEIA  and  which  obtained  the  prize  in  458  B.C. 
This  is  the  only  instance  in  which  the  whole  series 
has  survived  ;  the  satyric  play,  Proteus?  has  perished. 

1  Zeus  had  intended  to  wed  Thetis.  On  hearing  the  secret,  he 
married  her  to  Peleus,  who  became  the  father  of  Achilles. 

3  It  is  fairly  certain  that  it  dealt  with  Menelaus'  visit  to  Egypt  on  his 
way  back  from  Troy.  He  was  shipwrecked  on  an  island  and  the  pro- 
phetic Proteus  gave  him  advice,  sending  him  first  to  Egypt.  See  Odyssey, 

iv,  35^-586. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  99 

The   name    Oresteia  was  applied  to  the  whole   tetra- 
logy. 

The  background  of  the  AGAMEMNON  x  is  the  palace 
of  King  Agamemnon  at  Argos.  A  sentinel  is  dis- 
covered upon  the  roof ;  he  is  watching  for  the  beacon 
which  shall  signify  that  Troy  has  at  length  fallen. 
While  waiting  he  broods,  dropping  hints  that  all  is 
not  well  at  home.  Then  the  beacon  flashes  forth, 
and  he  shouts  the  news  to  the  Queen  Clytaemnestra 
within  the  house.  On  his  departure  the  chorus  enter, 
aged  councillors  of  Argos,  who  have  not  yet  heard 
the  tidings.  They  sing  of  the  quarrel  between  Greece 
and  Troy  and  describe  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia, 
Agamemnon's  daughter,  who  was  offered  up  to  Artemis 
in  order  to  obtain  a  favourable  wind  for  the  fleet  All 
the  altars  are  blazing  with  incense ;  Clytaemnestra 
enters,  and  they  ask  her  the  reason.  Troy,  she  replies, 
was  taken  last  night ;  a  system  of  beacons  has  been 
arranged  ;  the  signal  has  spread  over  sea  and  land 
before  dawn.  She  ponders  over  the  state  of  the  cap- 
tured city  and  hopes  that  the  victors  have  not  sinned 
against  the  gods  of  Troy.  The  old  men  sing  praise 
to  Heaven  and  moralize  on  the  downfall  of  human 
pride.  A  herald  appears,  announcing  that  Agamemnon 
has  landed  and  will  soon  reach  the  city  ;  he  dilates 
on  the  miseries  of  the  campaign,  till  the  queen  sends 
him  away  with  her  welcome  to  Agamemnon.  The 
chorus  call  him  back  and  ask  news  of  Menelaus,  the 
king's  brother  ;  Menelaus,  he  replies,  is  missing  :  as 
the  Greeks  were  sailing  home  a  tempest  arose  which 
scattered  the  fleet.  Agamemnon's  ship  has  returned 
alone.  The  elders,  after  he  has  gone,  sing  of  Helen 
and  the  deadly  power  of  her  beauty.  Agamemnon 
arrives,  accompanied  by  the  daughter  of  the  Trojan 
King  Priam,  Cassandra  the  prophetess,  who  has  be- 
come his  unwilling  concubine.  Clytaemnestra  greets 
him  with  effusiveness,  to  which  he  responds  haughtily. 

1  Arrangetnent :  protagonist,  Clytagmnestra  ;  deuteragonist,  Herald, 
Cassandra  ;  tritagonist,  Sentinel,  Agamemnon,  ^gisthus. 


100  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

She  persuades  him  against  his  will  to   walk  into   the 
palace   over  rich   carpets   like  an  Oriental   conqueror, 
and  accompanies  him  within  doors.     The  chorus   ex- 
press forebodings  which  they  cannot  understand.     The 
queen   comes  forth   and   orders  Cassandra   within,    to 
be  present  at  the   sacrifice    of  thanksgiving,    but   the 
captive   pays    no   heed    and    Clytaemnestra   in    anger 
retires.    The  elders  attempt  to  encourage  the  silent  girl, 
who  at  last  breaks  forth  into  incoherent  cries,  not  of 
fear  but  of  horror,  and  utters  vague  but  frightful  pro- 
phecies of  bloodshed  and  sin,  punctuated   by  the  be- 
wildered questions  of  her  hearers.     She  tells  them  that 
they  will  see  the  death  of  Agamemnon,  bewails  her  own 
wretchedness,    greets   her   death,    and   prophesies    the 
coming   of  an   avenger.     She  passes  into   the   house. 
After   a  lyric   on  wicked  prosperity,  the  voice  of  the 
king  is  heard  crying  within  that  he  has  been  mortally 
wounded.     Another  shriek  follows,    and   then   silence. 
The  chorus  are  in  a  tumult,  when  the  doors  are  flung 
open   and    Clytsemnestra   is   seen    standing   over   the 
corpses   of    Agamemnon    and    Cassandra.       She    has 
slain   the  king  with   an  axe,    entrapping   him  in   the 
folds  of  a  robe  while  in  his  bath.     In  reply  to  the  furious 
accusations  of  the  elders   she  glories  in  her  act — she 
is  the  personification  of  the  ancestral  curse  ;   and  she 
has  avenged  the  murder  of  Iphigenia.     The  altercation 
has  for  the  moment  reached  something  like  calm,  when 
^gisthus  appears.      He  is  the  cousin  of  Agamemnon, 
but  between  the  two  families  there  is  a  murderous  and 
adulterous   feud  ;    /Egisthus   himself  is    the    lover   of 
Clytsemnestra  and  has  shared  in  the  plot.     The  Argives 
turn  on  him  in  hatred  and  contempt,  which  he  answers 
with  tyrannical  threats.     They  remind  him  that  Orestes, 
the  king's  young  son,  is  alive  and  safe  abroad.     Swords 
are   drawn,  but  Clytaemnestra  insists  that  the  quarrel 
shall  cease ;  she  and  /Egisthus  must  rule  with  dignity. 

A   novel  theory   of  the  plot  has   been  put  forward 
by  the  late  Dr.  A.  W.  Verrall  in  his  edition  of  the  play.1 

1  See  especially  his  Introduction  (pp.  xiii-*lvii  of  the  2nd  edition). 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  101 

He  finds  the  following  difficulties  in  the  usual  ac- 
ceptation :  (i)  Agamemnon  lands  in  Argos  on  the  morn- 
ing after  the  night  in  which  Troy  was  captured,  though 
as  a  matter  of  course  and  a  matter  of  "  history  "  several 
days  (at  the  very  least)  must  have  elapsed  before  the 
Greek  host  so  much  as  embarked  ;  and  though  a  storm 
has  befallen  the  fleet  on  its  way.  (ii)  The  story  given 
by  Clytaemnestra  about  the  beacons  is  absurd.  Why 
has  the  arrangement  existed  for  only  one  year  of  the 
ten  ?  Why  make  an  arrangement  which  would  depend 
so  entirely  on  the  weather?  How  could  the  beacon 
on  Mount  Athos  have  been  seen  from  Eubcea  (a  hun- 
dred miles  away)  when  a  tempest  was  raging  on  the 
intervening  sea  ?  (iii)  This  mystery,  that  Agamemnon 
reaches  home  only  two  or  three  hours  after  his  signal, 
is  never  cleared  up  :  neither  he  nor  the  queen  mentions 
it  when  they  meet,  (iv)  Thus  the  whole  affair  of 
the  beacons  is  gratuitous  as  well  as  incredible,  (v) 
We  are  not  told  how  Agamemnon  was  slain.  That 
is,  though  the  poet  is  precise  enough  about  the  details 
of  the  actual  murder,  we  are  not  enlightened  as  to  how 
a  great  and  victorious  prince  could  be  killed  with  im- 
punity by  his  wife  and  her  lover,  who  thereupon,  with 
no  difficulty,  usurp  the  government,  (vi)  What  does 
^gisthus  mean  by  claiming  to  have  contrived  the 
whole  plot  ?  On  the  face  of  it  he  has  done  nothing 
but  skulk  in  the  background.  Dr.  Verrall's  explanation, 
set  forth  with  splendid  lucidity,  skill,  and  brilliance, 
may  be  briefly  summarized  thus.  For  a  year  Clytaem- 
nestra and  ^Egisthus  have  been  joined  in  a  treasonable 
and  adulterous  league.  ^Egisthus  knows  what  is  hap- 
pening at  Troy  and  has  the  first  news  of  Agamemnon's 
landing  (at  night).  He  lights  upon  Mount  Arachnaeus 
a  beacon  which  tells  Clytaemnestra  that  all  is  ready. 
(Her  story  of  the  fire-chain  is  a  lie  to  deceive  the 
watchman  and  the  elders.)  Agamemnon  thus  naturally 
arrives  only  an  hour  or  two  after  the  news  that  Troy 
has  fallen.  The  assassination -plot  succeeds  for  various 
reasons.  During  the  ten  years'  war  many  citizens  of 


102  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Argos  have  been  alienated  from  the  king  by  the  enor- 
mous loss  of  Greek  lives.  Hence  the  usurpers  have 
a  strong  body  of  potential  adherents.  In  fact,  several 
passages  which  our  texts  attribute  to  the  chorus 
really  belong  to  conspirators.  Next,  Agamemnon  by 
the  accident  of  the  storm  has  with  him,  not  the  great 
host,  but  a  single  ship's  company.  Finally,  though 
he  has  heard  much  ill  of  his  wife — this  only  can  account 
for  the  brutality  wherewith  he  greets  her — he  does  not 
suspect  her  resourcefulness,  wickedness,  and  courage. 
Verrall's  theory  should  probably  be  accepted. 

This  tragedy  is  beyond  compare  the  greatest  work 
of  yEschylus.  The  lyrics  surpass  those  of  any  other 
drama.  To  the  majesty  and  scope  familiar  everywhere 
in  y£schylean  choric  writing,  and  to  the  tenderness  which 
diffuses  a  gentle  gleam  through  the  Prometheus,  are 
now  added  matchless  pathos  and  the  authentic  thrill 
of  drama.  The  picture  of  Iphigenia  (vv.  184-249)  is 
not  merely  lovely  and  tearful  beyond  words  ;  it  is  a 
marvel  that  this  gloomy  colossus  of  the  stage  should 
for  a  moment  have  excelled  Euripides  on  Euripides' 
strongest  ground  ;  it  is  as  if  Michelangelo  had  painted 
Raffaelle's  "  Madonna  of  the  Grand  Duke  "  amid  the 
prophets  and  sibyls  of  the  Sistine  Chapel.  Even  more 
poignant,  because  more  simple,  are  the  brief  lines  (vv. 
436-47)  which  tell  how  the  War-God,  the  money- 
changer of  men's  bodies,  sends  back  from  Troy  a 
handful  of  charred  dust,  the  pitiful  return  for  a  man 
who  has  departed  into  the  market-place  of  Death. 
Best  known  of  all  perhaps  is  the  passage  (vv.  402-26) 
which  portrays  the  numb  anguish  of  a  deserted  husband. 
Further,  these  lyrics  are  dramatic.  The  choric  songs 
do  not  suspend  the  action  by  their  sublime  elucidations  ; 
the  comments  enable  us  to  understand  the  march  of 
events,  giving  us  the  keynote  of  the  scene  which  follows 
each  lyric.  For  instance,  when  the  first  stasimon 
dilates,  not  upon  the  glory  of  conquest,  but  upon  the 
fall  of  pride  and  the  sorrows  of  war,  we  are  prepared 
for  the  herald  and  his  tale  in  which  triumph  is  over- 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  103 

borne  by  the  memory  of  hardship  and  tempest.  The 
misgivings  which  brood  over  the  third  stasimon,  in 
spite  of  the  victorious  entry  of  the  king  which  has 
just  been  witnessed,  is  a  fit  prelude  to  the  terrible 
outbreaks  of  Cassandra. 

The  characterization  shows  a  marked  advance  on 
the  Prometheus  in  variety  and  colour.  This  is  not  so 
much  because  three  actors  are  needed  as  against  two  in 
the  earlier  play  ;  for  though  they  are  necessary,  compara- 
tively little  use  is  made  of  the  increased  facilities.  But, 
while  Clytsemnestra  is  technically  as  great  a  creation 
as  Prometheus,  the  secondary  persons  are  much  more 
interesting  in  themselves  than  in  the  earlier  drama. 
They  do  of  course  form  a  series  of  admirable  foils  to  the 
queen,  but  they  are  worthy  of  careful  study  for  their  own 
sakes,  which  cannot  be  said  very  heartily  for  the  lesser 
personages  of  the  Prometheus.  The  sentinel  is  excellent, 
sketched  in  a  few  lines  with  a  sureness  of  touch  which 
is  a  new  thing  in  this  poet's  minor  characters.  The 
sense  of  impending  trouble  mixed  with  expected  joy,  the 
flavour  of  rich  colloquialism  about  his  speech,  and  the 
hearty  dance  upon  the  palace-roof  wherewith  he  hails 
the  beacon,  make  him  live.  Even  more  commonplace, 
theoretically,  is  the  part  given  to  the  herald,  but  him 
again  ^Eschylus  has  created  a  real  man.  The  passion- 
ate joy  with  which  he  greets  his  native  soil,  and  the 
lugubrious  relish  wherewith  he  details  the  hardships  of 
the  army  before  Troy,  make  him  our  friend  at  once,  and 
present  us  with  that  sense  of  atmosphere  which  is  often 
lacking  in  Greek  tragedy.  Agamemnon  may  seem  a  dis- 
appointing figure ;  very  naturally,  for  it  is  the  poet's 
purpose  to  disappoint  us.  To  depict  a  great  and  noble 
king  would  have  spoiled  the  splendid  effect  of  Clytsem- 
nestra. Agamemnon's  murder  must  be  made  for  the 
moment  as  intelligible  as  may  be,  therefore  the  dramatist 
shows  us  a  conceited,  heavy-witted,  pompous  person  who 
none  the  less  reveals  certain  qualities  which  have  made 
it  possible  for  such  a  man  to  overthrow  Troy. 

Clytsemnestra  is  ^Eschylus'  masterpiece — not  indeed 


104  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

a  masterly  picture  of  female  character ;  such  work  was 
left  to  others — but  a  superb  presentment  of  a  woman 
dowered  with  an  imperial  soul,  pressed  into  sin  by  the 
memory  of  her  murdered  child,  the  blind  ambition  of  her 
husband,  and  the  consciousness  of  an  accursed  ancestry. 
Here,  as  elsewhere  in  these  three  tragedies,  the  architec- 
tural skill  with  which  ^Eschylus  plans  his  trilogy  invite 
the  closest  study.  In  this  first  part,  all  the  justification 
which  Clytsemnestra  can  claim  is  held  steadily  before  the 
eyes.  The  slaughter  of  Iphigenia,  which  killed  her  love 
for  Agamemnon,  is  dwelt  upon  early  in  the  play  and 
recalled  by  her  once  and  again  during  her  horrible 
conversation  with  the  chorus  after  the  king's  death. 
Another  wrong  to  her  is  brought  visibly  upon  the  scene 
in  the  person  of  Cassandra.  The  sordid  side  of  her 
vengeance,  her  amour  with  ^Egisthus,  remains  hardly 
hinted  at  until  the  very  end,  where  it  springs  into  over- 
whelming prominence — but  at  the  very  moment  when 
we  are  preparing  to  pass  over  to  the  Choephorce,  the 
second  great  stage  of  the  action,  in  which  the  mission  of 
Orestes  is  to  be  exalted.  Clytaemnestra  has  been  often 
compared  to  Lady  Macbeth.  But  Shakespeare's  crea- 
tion is  more  feminine  than  that  of  the  Athenian.  She 
evinces  inhuman  heartlessness  and  cynicism  till  the  task 
is  accomplished  ;  before  the  play  ends  she  is  broken  for 
ever.  Clytaemnestra  never  falters  in  her  resolution, 
hardly  a  quiver  reveals  the  strain  of  danger  and  excite- 
ment upon  her  nerves  while  success  is  still  unsure.  When 
the  deed  is  accomplished  and  the  strain  relaxed,  then, 
instead  of  yielding  to  hysterical  collapse,  she  is  superbly 
collected.1  Years  after,  she  re-appears  in  the  Choephorce, 
but  time,  security,  and  power  have,  to  all  seeming,  left 
little  mark  upon  this  soul  of  iron.  At  the  last  frightful 
moment  when  she  realizes  that  vengeance  is  knocking 
at  the  gate,  her  courage  blazes  up  more  gloriously  than 
ever  :  "  Give  me  the  axe,  this  instant,  wherewith  that 

1  This  is  noted  by  an  admirable  touch.  Almost  always  a  tragedy 
ends  with  words  of  the  chorus  as  the  least  impassioned  parties.  In  the 
Agamemnon  the  closing  words  are  uttered  by  Clytaemnestra. 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  105 

man  was  slain  V  It  is  a  superb  defiance  ;  for  thrilling 
audacity  this  passage  stands  perhaps  alone  until  we  come 
to  the  splendid  "  Stand  neuter,  Gods,  this  once,  I  do  in- 
voke  you,"  with  which  Vanbrugh 2  rises,  for  his  moment, 
into  the  heights  where  ^schylus  abode.  Yet  next 
moment  the  knowledge  that  her  lover  is  dead  brings  her 
to  her  knees. 

Cassandra  and  ^gisthus  have  not  yet  been  con- 
sidered, for  they  belong  also  to  the  next  topic — the 
method  in  which  the  unity  of  the  play  is  so  handled  that 
it  does  not  interfere  with,  but  helps  to  effect,  the  unity 
of  the  whole  trilogy.  The  indescribable  power  and 
thrill  of  Cassandra's  scene  may  easily  blind  us  to  the 
slightness  of  the  character-drawing.  Simply  as  a  char- 
acter, the  princess  is  no  more  subtly  or  carefully  studied 
than  the  herald ;  the  extraordinary  interest  which  sur- 
rounds her  arises  not  from  what  she  is  or  does  but  from 
what  happens  to  her.  She  is  the  analogue  of  I  o  in  the 
Prometheus.  The  mere  structure  of  both  plays  allots  to 
lo  and  Cassandra  precisely  the  same  functions.  Passive 
victims  of  misfortune,  they  are  the  symbol  and  articula- 
tion of  the  background  in  the  particular  drama  ;  further, 
they  are  vital  to  the  economy  of  the  whole  series,  in  that 
they  sum  up  in  themselves  the  future  happenings  which 
the  later  portions  of  it  are  to  expound.  So  far,  they  are 
the  same  ;  but  when  we  go  beyond  theoretical  structure 
and  look  to  the  finished  composition,  Cassandra  far  out- 
shines lo.  The  Argive  maiden  suffers,  shrinks,  and 
laments  in  utter  perplexity.  The  Trojan  suffers,  but  she 
does  not  quail ;  her  lamentations  are  hardly  lamentations 
at  all,  so  charged  are  they  with  lofty  indignation,  and 
the  sense  of  pathos  in  human  things.  lo  is  broken  by 
her  calamity  ;  Cassandra  is  purified  and  schooled.  The 
poet  who  in  this  very  play  sings  that  suffering  is  the  path 
to  wisdom  has  not  made  us  wait  long  for  an  example. 
There  is,  too,  a  definite  technical  advance  in  this,  that 
lo  merely  hears  the  prophecy  of  justification  and  the 

1  Choephorae,  889.  2  The  Relapse,  V,  iv.  135 


106  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

possibility  of  revenge,  while  Cassandra  in  her  own  person 
foretells  the  return  of  Orestes. 

^Egisthus  also,  but  less  obviously,  is  important  to  the 
progress  of  the  trilogy.  His  appearance  and  his  speeches 
are  no  anti-climax  to  the  splendid  scene  of  Clytsem- 
nestra's  triumph.  The  queen  and  Cassandra  have  talked 
of  the  Pelopid  curse  ;  ^gisthus  is  the  curse  personified. 
It  is  through  ancient  wickedness  that  he  has  passed  a 
half-savage  life  of  brooding  exile  ;  the  sins  of  his  fathers 
have  turned  him  into  a  man  fit  to  better  their  instruction. 
Again,  this  last  scene  brings  before  us  in  full  power  that 
aspect  of  Clytaemnestra  which  has  been  almost  ignored — 
her  baser  reason  for  the  murder  of  her  husband.  This 
is  done  precisely  at  the  right  place.  To  dwell  on  the 
queen's  intrigue  earlier  would  have  deprived  her  of  that 
measure  of  sympathy  which  throughout  this  first  play  she 
needs.  Not  to  have  depicted  it  at  all  would  have  left  that 
sympathy  unimpaired,  and  we  should  have  entered  upon 
the  Choephoros  fatally  unable  to  side  with  Orestes  in  his 
horrible  mission. 

The  story  of  the  CnoEPHORCE1  (Xoi^dpoi,  "  Libation- 
Bearers  ")  is  as  follows.  The  back-scene  throughout 
probably  represents  the  palace  of  Argos ;  in  the  or- 
chestra2 is  the  tomb  of  Agamemnon.  Something  like 
ten  years  have  elapsed  since  the  usurpation  of  ^Egisthus. 
Orestes,  son  of  the  murdered  king,  accompanied  by  his 
friend  Pylades,  enters  and  greets  his  father's  grave,  lay- 
ing thereon  a  lock  of  his  hair  in  sign  of  mourning ;  they 
withdraw.  The  chorus  (led  by  Electra)  enter — attend- 
ants of  Electra  carrying  libations,  to  be  poured  in  prayer 
upon  Agamemnon's  tomb.  Their  song  expresses  their 
grief,  hints  at  revenge,  and  explains  that  they  have 
been  sent  by  Clytaemnestra  herself,  who  is  terrified  by  a 
dream  interpreted  to  signify  the  wrath  of  Agamemnon's 
spirit.  Electra  discusses  the  situation  with  her  friends, 

1  Arrangement :     protagonist,     Orestes ;     deuteragonist,     Electra, 
Clytaemnestra  ;  tritagonist,  Pylades,  nurse,  attendant,  /Egisthus. 

2  This  is  of  course  a  conventional  mise-en-scene ;  we  are  to  imagine 
the  tomb  as  distant  from  the  palace. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  107 

and  pours  the  libations  over  the  mound  in  her  own 
name,  not  on  behalf  of  her  mother,  calling  upon  the 
gods  and  Agamemnon's  spirit  to  bring  Orestes  home 
and  punish  the  murderess.  Electra  discovers  the  tress 
of  hair  left  by  Orestes.  That  it  has  come  from  him  she 
knows,  as  it  resembles  her  own  ; l  he  must  have  sent  it. 
In  the  midst  of  her  excitement,  she  perceives  footprints  ; 
these,  too,  she  recognizes  as  like  her  own.  Suddenly 
Orestes  appears  and  reveals  himself.  She  still  doubts, 
but  he  exhibits  a  piece  of  embroidery  which  she  herself 
worked  long  ago.  Electra  falls  into  his  arms  ;  Orestes 
explains  to  his  friends  that  Apollo  has  sent  him  home 
as  an  avenger.  In  a  long  lyrical  scene  (Ko/x/oidg),  the 
chorus,  Electra,  and  Orestes  invoke  Agamemnon  to 
assume  life  and  activity  in  aid  of  his  avenger.2  The 
chorus  leader  tells  Orestes  of  Clytaemnestra's  vision. 
She  dreamed  that  she  gave  birth  to  a  snake,  which 
drew  blood  from  her  breast.  He  expounds  this  as  fore- 
telling the  death  of  the  queen  at  his  hands.  Explaining 
that  he  and  his  followers  will  gain  admission  to  the 
palace  as  travellers,  he  departs.  The  maidens  raise  a 
song  of  astonishment  at  the  crimes  of  which  mortals  are 
capable,  dwelling  especially  upon  the  treachery  of  an 
evil  woman.  Orestes  comes  back  accompanied  by  his 
followers,  and  tells  the  porter  that  he  brings  news  for 
the  head  of  the  house.  Clytaemnestra  appears,  and  re- 
ceives the  feigned  message  that  Orestes  is  dead.  The 
queen  is  apparently  overwhelmed,  but  bids  the  visitors 
become  her  guests.  While  the  chorus  utter  a  brief 
prayer  for  success,  the  aged  nurse  of  Orestes  comes 
forth,  in  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  foster-son.  She  tells 
the  chorus  she  has  been  despatched  by  Clytaemnestra 
to  summon  ./Egisthus  and  his  bodyguard,  that  he  may 
question  the  strangers.  They  persuade  her  to  alter  the 

1  On  this  and  the  other  "tokens"  see  below,  p.  258. 

2  The  dead  man  is  undoubtedly  supposed  to  send  aid  in  a  mysterious 
way,  but  no  ghost  appears,  as  in  the  Persce.     This  discrepancy  points  to 
a  change  in  religious  feeling.      Clytaemnestra's  shade  "  appears  "  in  the 
Eumenides,  but  as  a  dream  (see  v.  1 16). 


108  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

message ;  let  ^gisthus  come  unattended.  When  she 
has  gone,  they  raise  another  lyric  in  passionate  encour- 
agement of  Orestes,  ^gisthus  enters  and  goes  into 
the  guest-wing  of  the  house ;  in  a  moment  his  scream 
is  heard  ;  the  chorus  retire.1  A  servant  of  ^gisthus 
bursts  forth,  proclaiming  the  death  of  his  master.  He 
flings  himself  upon  the  main  door,  desperately  shouting 
for  Clytaemnestra,  who  in  a  moment  appears.  His 
message,  "  The  dead  are  slaying  them  that  live,"  is 
clear  to  her  :  doom  is  at  hand,  but  she  calls  for  her 
murderous  axe.  Orestes  rushes  out  upon  her  with 
drawn  sword.  His  first  words  announce  the  death  of 
v^gisthus,  and  she  beseeches  him  piteously  for  mercy. 
Orestes,  unnerved,  asks  the  counsel  of  Pylades,  who  for 
the  first  and  last  time  speaks,  reminding  the  prince  of 
his  oath  and  the  command  of  Heaven.  Clytsemnestra 
is  driven  within  to  be  slain  beside  her  lover.  After  a 
song  of  triumph  from  the  chorus,  the  two  corpses  are 
displayed  to  the  people  ;  beside  them  stands  Orestes 
who  brings  forth  the  blood-stained  robe  wherein 
Agamemnon  was  entangled.  The  sight  of  it  brings 
upon  the  speaker  a  perturbation  strange  even  in  such 
circumstances.  It  is  the  coming  of  madness.  He  sees 
in  fancy  the  Furies  sent  by  his  mother's  spirit,  and 
rushes  away  to  seek  at  Delphi  the  protection  which 
Apollo  has  promised.  The  play  ends  with  a  few  lines 
from  the  chorus  lamenting  the  sinful  history  of  the 
house. 

The  Ckoephorce  is  less  popular  with  modern  readers 
than  either  of  its  companions.  This  is  owing  partly  to 
the  difficulty  of  perusal,  for  the  text  of  the  lyrics  is  often 
corrupt  ;  it  is  still  more  due  to  no  accident,  but  to 
technique.  The  second  play  of  a  trilogy  was  usually 
more  statuesque  than  the  other  two.  There  is,  of  course, 
a  progress  of  events,  not  merely  a  Phrynichean  treat- 
ment of  a  static  theme ;  but  the  poet  carefully  retards 
his  speed.  Thus  the  Choephorce  should  be  compared 

1  w.  870-4.  It  seems  most  natural  to  suppose  that  they  altogether 
quit  the  orchestra,  returning  before  v.  930. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  109 

rather  with  the  Prometheus  than  with  the  Agamemnon. 
We  then  observe  an  improvement — if  we  wish  to  call  it 
so — in  construction.  The  great  Commos  keeps  the  play 
almost 1  at  a  standstill ;  but  the  rest  of  the  work  is  full 
of  dramatic  vigour. 

It  is  true  that  none  of  the  characters  has  the  arrest- 
ing quality  of  those  in  the  Agamemnon.  The  nurse  is 
a  worthy  companion  to  the  watchman — her  quaint  and 
explicit  references  to  the  trouble  caused  her  by  Orestes 
when  a  baby  are  the  most  remarkable  among  the  few 
comic  touches  found  in  our  poet ;  and  the  part  of  the 
slave  who  gives  the  alarm,  minute  indeed,  is  yet  the 
finest  of  its  kind  in  Greek  tragedy.  But  the  persons  of 
greater  import — Electra,  /Egisthus,  and  Py lades — would 
not  have  taxed  the  skill  of  a  moderate  playwright. 
Clytsemnestra  is  magnificent,  but  less  through  her 
present  part  than  through  the  superb  continuation  of 
her  role  in  the  Agamemnon  ;  her  scenes  are  brief,  like 
the  glimpse  of  a  fierce  sunset  after  a  lowering  day. 
She  is  the  only  person  characterized,  except,  indeed, 
Orestes,  and  even  he  through  most  of  the  drama  is  not 
a  character,  but  a  purpose  and  a  few  emotions  speaking 
appropriate  sentences.  This  is  true  even  of  the  scene 
where  he  condemns  his  mother.  The  only  touch  of 
genuine  drama  is  the  instant  where  he  quails  before  her 
entreaty  ;  but  though  this  is  real  enough,  it  is  not  great. 
The  undoubted  power  of  the  scene  is  due  not  to 
dramatic  skill,  but  to  the  intrinsic  horror  of  the  situation. 
.^Eschylus  has  given  us  almost  as  little  as  we  could 
expect.  But  turn  the  page  and  study  Orestes'  address 
to  the  Argive  state — the  increase  in  dramatic  force  is 
appalling.  He  begins  by  stately,  vigorous,  and  im- 
passioned eloquence  equal  to  almost  anything  in  the 
Agamemnon.  The  blood-stained  robe  is  displayed,  and 
the  hideous  sight  seems  to  eat  into  his  brain.  His 

1  Not  quite,  however.  The  poet  is  to  depict  a  man,  with  whom  we 
are  to  sympathize,  almost  in  the  act  of  slaying  his  mother.  Not  only 
Orestes,  but  the  spectator  also,  needs  as  much  spiritual  fortification  as  can 
be  provided. 


110  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

grip  on  what  he  means  to  say  slips ;  he  struggles  to  re- 
capture it ;  one  can  see  his  failing  mind  stagger  from 
the  mother  of  whom  he  strives  to  speak  to  the  garment 
of  death  before  him.  A  word  rises  to  the  surface  of  his 
thoughts,  he  snatches  at  it,  but  it  brings  up  with  it  the 
wrong  phrase.  The  horror  passes  into  us  ;  this  half- 
madness  is  not  lunatic  incoherence  but  the  morbidly 
subtle  coherence  of  a  masterful  mind  struggling  against 
insanity.  The  deadly  net  entangles  his  brain  as  it  en- 
tangled his  father's  body.  By  a  final  effort  he  collects 
himself  and  declares  that  he  goes  to  Delphi  to  claim 
the  protection  and  countenance  of  Heaven.  Then  his 
doom  settles  upon  him  ;  the  Furies  arise  before  him  and 
he  flees  distraught. 

That  such  immense  force  should  be  manifested  only 
at  the  end  of  the  play,  that  until  and  during  the  crisis 
^Eschylus  exerts  only  sufficient  dramatic  energy  to  pre- 
sent his  situations  intelligibly,  is  the  most  significant 
fact  in  the  Ckoephorce.  This  is  deliberate  in  an  artist 
who  has  composed  the  Agamemnon  and  the  Eumenides. 
In  the  opening  stage  it  is  human  sin  and  courage  which 
provide  the  rising  interest ;  in  the  third  the  righteous- 
ness and  wisdom  of  the  Most  High  unloose  the  knot  and 
save  mankind ;  at  both  periods  personality  is  the  basis 
of  action.  But  in  the  middle  stage  the  master  is  not 
personality,  but  the  impersonal  Fury  demanding  blood 
in  vengeance  for  blood,  a  law  of  life  and  of  the  universe, 
named  by  a  name  but  possessing  no  attributes.  This 
law  may  be  called  by  a  feminine  title  Erinys  ;  it  is  called 
also  by  a  phrase  :  "  Do  and  Suffer  "  ; x  it  is  the  shade  of 
Agamemnon,  thirsting — is  it  for  blood  as  a  bodily  drink 
or  for  death  as  expiation  ? — and  sending  the  dark  pro- 
geny of  his  soul  up  from  Hades.  This  fact,  then,  and 
no  person,  it  is  which  dominates  the  play,  and  that  is 
why  the  persons  concerned  are  for  the  time  no  magnifi- 
cent figures  of  will  or  valour  or  wisdom,  but  the  panting 
driven  thralls  of  something  unseen  which  directs  their 
movements  and  decides  their  immediate  destiny. 

1  W.  313  :   fy>o<7tii/rt  nadfiv. 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  111 


The  plot  of  the  third  play,  the  EUMENIDES  * 
Ses,  "the  Kindly  Ones,"  an  euphemistic  name  of  the 
Furies)  is  as  follows.  Outside  the  shrine  at  Delphi,  the 
Pythian  priestess  utters  a  prayer  to  all  the  deities  con- 
nected with  the  spot,  after  which  she  enters  the  sanctuary. 
Almost  instantly  she  returns  in  horror,  and  tells  how  she 
has  seen  a  blood-stained  man  seated  upon  the  Omphalos 
and  round  him  a  band  of  sleeping  females,  loathly  to  the 
sight.  She  departs.  From  the  temple  the  god  appears  2 
with  his  suppliant  Orestes,  whom  he  encourages  and 
sends  forth  (led  by  the  god  Hermes)  on  his  wanderings, 
which  are  to  end  in  peace  at  Athens.  When  the  two 
have  disappeared,  the  ghost  of  Clytaemnestra  rises  and 
awakens  the  sleeping  Furies.  They  burst  forth  from 
the  temple  in  frenzy  at  the  escape  of  their  victim.  In 
the  midst  of  the  clamour  Apollo,  with  words  of  contemptu- 
ous hatred,  bids  them  begone.  The  scene  now  changes 
to  Athens,  where  Orestes  throws  himself  upon  the  pro- 
tection of  the  goddess  Athena,  whose  statue  he  clasps. 
In  a  moment  the  chorus  of  Furies  enter  in  pursuit  ;  they 
discover  Orestes  and  describe  the  horrible  doom  which 
he  must  suffer.  He  defies  them  and  calls  upon  the 
absent  Athena.  But  they  circle  about  him  chanting 
their  fearful  "  binding-song  "  —  the  proclamation  of  their 
office  and  rights  as  the  implacable  avengers  of  bloodshed 
and  every  other  sin.  As  their  strains  die  away  Athena 
enters.  She  hears  the  dispute  in  outline,  the  Furies  in- 
sisting that  for  matricide  there  can  be  no  pardon,  Orestes 
declaring  that  he  has  been  purified  ritually  by  Apollo 
who  urged  him  to  his  deed.  The  goddess  determines 
that  the  suit  shall  be  tried  by  a  court  of  her  own  citizens. 
Meanwhile  the  Furies  sing  of  the  danger  to  righteous- 
ness which  must  result  if  their  prerogatives  are  with- 
drawn :  "  terror  has  a  rightful  place  and  must  sit  for  ever 

1  Arrangement.  —  Croiset  gives  :  protagonist,  Orestes  ;  deuteragonist, 
Apollo  ;  tritagonist,  Athena,  priestess,  ghost  of  Clytaemnestra.    This  group- 
ing is  certainly  right,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  suppose  that  the  part  of  Athena 
was  given  to  the  tritagonist.     It  seems  better  to  give  Athena,  etc.,  to  the 
protagonist,  Apollo  to  the  second,  and  Orestes  to.the  third  actor. 

2  Probably  the  eccyclemct  was  used.     See  pp.  66-8. 


112  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

watching  over  the  soul  V  The  court  of  justice  is  now 
assembled  on  the  Areopagus.  Athena  presides ;  with 
her  are  the  jurymen  (generally  supposed  to  number 
twelve)  ;  before  her  are  the  Furies  and  Orestes  ;  behind 
is  a  great  crowd  of  Athenian  citizens.  A  trumpet  blast 
announces  the  opening  of  the  session,  and  Apollo  enters 
to  aid  Orestes.  The  trial  begins  with  a  cross-examina- 
tion of  Orestes  by  the  Furies,  in  which  he  is  by  no 
means  triumphant.  Apollo  takes  his  place  and  gives 
justification  for  the  matricide,  under  three  heads :  (i)  it 
was  the  command  of  Zeus  ;  (ii)  Agamemnon  was  a 
great  king  ;  (iii)  the  real  parent  of  a  child  is  the  father, 
the  mother  being  only  the  nurse.  To  prove  this  last 
point  Apollo  instances  the  president  herself,  Athena, 
born  of  no  mother  but  from  the  head  of  Zeus.  He  ends 
by  promising  that  Orestes,  if  acquitted,  will  be  a  firm 
and  useful  ally  to  Athens.  The  goddess  now  declares 
the  pleading  at  an  end,  but  before  the  vote  is  taken  she 
delivers  a  speech  to  the  jury,  proclaiming  that  she  now 
and  hereby  founds  the  Areopagite  Court  which  shall  for 
ever  keep  watch  over  the  welfare  of  Athens  by  the  re- 
pression of  crime.  The  judges  advance  one  by  one  and 
vote  secretly  ;  but  before  the  votes  are  counted  Athena 
gives  her  ruling  that  if  an  equal  number  are  cast  on 
either  side  Orestes  shall  be  acquitted,  for  she  gives  her 
casting  vote  in  his  favour.2  The  votes  are  counted  and 
found  equal,  and  the  goddess  proclaims  that  Orestes  is 
free.  Apollo  departs,  and  Orestes  breaks  forth  into 
thanksgiving  and  promises  that  Argos  shall  ever  be  the 
friend  of  Athens.  He  leaves  Athena  and  her  citizens 
confronted  by  the  Furies,  who  raise  cries  of  frantic  in- 

1  w.  517-9:— 

tcrff  oirov  rb  tocivbv  ev 

KOI  <f>ptvS>V  firi<TKO7TOV 
&€l  [LfVftV    KadfjfJifVOV. 

2  The  actual  rule  of  the  Areopagite  Court  was  that  if  the  votes  were 
even  the  defendant  was  acquitted.     This  rule  was  explained  as  derived 
from  the  "Vote  of  Athena"  in  the  trial  of  Orestes.     It  seems  tV*en  that 
Athena's  vote  here  makes  inequality,  not  equality.     Therefore  her  pebble 
is  not  put  into  either  urn,  but  laid  between  them. 


THE  WORKS   OF  AESCHYLUS  118 

dignation,  turning  their  rage  upon  Athens  and  threaten- 
ing to  blight  the  soil,  the  flocks,  and  the  people.  Athena 
seeks  to  placate  them  by  offering  a  habitation  and 
worship  in  Attica.  For  a  time  they  refuse  to  listen,  but 
after  their  fourth  song  of  vengeance  they  relent.  Athena 
promises  that  they  are  to  become  kindly  earth-deities  1 
domiciled  in  Attica,  blessing  the  increase  of  crops,  of 
herds,  and  of  the  family.  The  citizens,  with  torches  in 
their  hands,  form  a  procession  led  by  Athena,  and  con- 
duct the  new  divinities  to  their  dwelling  in  a  cave  beneath 
the  Acropolis. 

It  remains  to  deal  with  the  literary  and  religious 
aspects  of  the  play.  The  poet  sketches  Orestes  in  but 
a  rudimentary  style.  There  is,  indeed,  hardly  any  char- 
acter-drawing in  him  ;  he  is  simply  any  brave,  sensitive, 
religious  man.  The  "  human  interest "  is  almost  confined 
to  the  gods,  without  our  forgetting  that  they  are  sur- 
rounded by  human  auditors.  Athena  and  the  Furies 
are  made  to  live  by  a  few  noble  sweeping  strokes  ; 
Athena,  the  majestic  presentment  of  Olympian  wisdom 
and  the  visible  head  of  her  favoured  city  ;  the  Furies 
majestic  in  their  rage,  unanswerable  in  their  claim  that 
punishment  of  crime  cannot  be  done  away  if  the  world 
is  to  endure.  Apollo  is  a  curious  study,  less  sublime 
than  we  expected.  His  manner  under  cross-examination 
by  the  Furies  is  a  little  too  human  ;  indeed  he  loses  his 
temper.  The  fact  is  that,  though  ^Eschylus  has  no  de- 
sire to  treat  Apollo  irreverently,  he  is  by  no  means  con- 
cerned to  depict  a  perfect  being  ;  and  for  two  reasons. 
Firstly,  he  insists  on  reminding  us  that  Apollo  is  but 
the  minister  of  Zeus ;  it  is  Zeus  only  whom  he  is  bent 
on  exalting.  Secondly,  he  knows  well  that  his  audience, 
as  between  the  Furies  and  Apollo,  have  a  strong  bias 
in  favour  of  the  latter.  The  poet  does  acquit  Orestes, 
but  it  is  of  the  deepest  importance  in  his  eyes  that  we 

1  It  is  implied  by  the  title  of  the  drama  that  they  assume  the  title 
Eumenides  or  "  Gracious  Ones,"  but  this  title  is  not  used  in  the  play  itself. 
Their  most  usual  name  was  2*^«>at,  "  Awful  Ones  ". 

8 


114  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

should  not  complacently  regard  the  Furies  as  mere 
malicious  fiends,  routed  by  a  gloriously  contemptuous 
Olympian ;  the  Furies  may  be  wrong,  perhaps,  but 
prima  facie  they  have  a  terribly  strong  case.  Therefore 
in  the  scene  of  the  pleadings  they  at  least  hold  their  own. 
Apollo  may  be  more  right  than  they  ;  he  is  emphatically 
not  their  superior,  his  personal  fiat  is  not  a  spiritual  sanc- 
tion profounder  than  theirs.  Neither  party  has  got  to 
the  root  of  things.  The  Furies  say  :  "This  man  shed 
the  blood  of  a  kinswoman  ;  he  must  be  for  ever  damned  ". 
Apollo  says  :  "  He  has  not  sinned,  for  Zeus  bade  him 
act  thus  ".  The  acquittal  of  Orestes  is  not  the  solution 
of  this  disagreement,  it  is  but  the  beginning  ;  we  can 
hardly  understand  the  dispute  as  yet 

We  thus  come  to  the  religious  aspect  of  the  Eumen- 
ides.  ^Eschylus  is  of  course  too  sincere  to  be  satisfied, 
or  to  allow  us  to  be  satisfied,  with  the  fact  that  Orestes 
actually  escapes.  His  pursuers  attack  not  the  Argive 
prince  only  ;  much  of  their  language  is  an  indictment 
of  Apollo,  and  ultimately  of  Zeus.  It  is  very  well 
for  Apollo  to  revile  them  as  "beasts  detested  by 
the  gods,"1  but  the  gods  are  themselves  arraigned. 
The  earth-powers  stand  for  the  principle  that  sin, 
especially  bloodshed,  must  be  punished  ;  this  demand 
is  recognized  as  just  by  Athena,2  and  is  not  repudiated 
by  Apollo.  Yet  Zeus,  the  Sovereign  of  all  things, 
extends  his  hand  over  the  man  who  has  fallen  under 
their  sway  by  his  act.  How  shall  these  claims  be 
reconciled  ? 

The  solution  of  ./Eschylus  is  not  unlike  that  which 
(it  appears)  he  offered  at  the  end  of  the  Prometheus- 
trilogy.  We  are  to  imagine  that  we  witness  the  events 
of  a  time  when  Zeus  himself  has  not  attained  to  full 
stature.  His  face  is  set  towards  the  perfection  of 
righteousness,  but  development  awaits  even  him.  In 
the  instance  of  Orestes,  the  jar  between  Furies  and 

1  v.  644. 

2  In  her  great  speech  to  the  court  she  plainly  adopts  the  language  of 
the  Furies.     See  below. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  115 

Apollo,  or  more  ultimately  between  the  earth -powers 
and  Zeus,  shows  that  neither  party  is  perfectly  right. 
None  the  less,  it  is  essential  that  there  should  be  but 
one  master  of  the  universe,  and  the  Furies  are  com- 
pelled to  submit.  But  ^schylus  does  not  lay  down 
his  pen  at  this  point ;  nothing  does  he  avoid  more 
carefully  than  an  ending  which  might  appear  as  de- 
sirable as  obvious  to  a  vulgar  playwright,  some  showy 
tableau  of  grovelling  fiends  and  triumphant  goddess. 
The  Furies  themselves  look  for  nothing  less  than 
moral  annihilation  *  as  the  result  of  defeat.  But  some- 
thing of  which  they  have  never  dreamed — of  which, 
probably,  no  Greek  in  the  theatre  has  dreamed — is  in 
store  for  them  ;  neither  victory  nor  defeat,  but  re- 
cognition by  the  power  to  which  they  have  been 
forced  to  bow,  assimilation  to  that  religion  from  which 
they  have  kept  themselves  so  jealously  sundered. 
They  are  still  to  be  mighty  powers  of  earth,  yet 
their  function  is  to  be  cursing  no  more,  but  blessing 
only. 

But  is  this  a  solution  at  all  ?  Is  it  enough  to  hint 
at  the  thunderbolt,  to  offer  a  bribe  of  power  and 
worship  that  the  Furies  may  forget  their  rage  against 
Attica  ? 2  What  is  to  become  of  their  function  as 
inflexible  champions  of  righteousness,  which  has  been 
the  moral  safeguard  of  men  ?  This  duty  the  goddesses 
leave  as  a  legacy  to  the  newly-formed  court  of  chosen 
Athenians  : — 3 

1  V.  747  :   ty/""  y«p  tppciv,  TI  irpocra)  rip.as  vtp,fiv. 

3  Dr.  Verrall  (Introduction  to  his  edition,  pp.  xxxii,  xxxiii)  explains  the 
reconciliation  of  the  Furies  as  the  result  of  a  mystic  revelation  conveyed 
not  in  words  but  through  a  kind  of  spiritual  magnetism  exercised  by 
Athena  when  she  draws  near  to  them  at  v.  886  (he  notes  the  break  in 
syntax  at  this  point)  ;  such  an  influence  could  not  be  shown  forth  in  words — 
it  is  too  sacred  and  mysterious.  But  if  a  poet  does  undertake  to  dramatize 
the  truths  of  religion,  he  must  do  so  in  dramatic  form  ;  he  ought  not  sud- 
denly to  throw  up  his  task.  Several  places  in  ^Cschylus  can  be  found 
where  he  does  put  such  ideas  into  words. 

8  This  appears  to  me  certain  from  Athena's  language  to  the  court, 
but  the  reader  should  not  suppose  that  the  Furies  say  so  definitely  ;  they 
acquiesce. 


116  GREEK  TRAGEDY 


rrr'  avapxov 

aoroTf  »rfpioTtXXov(ri  /SovXevw 
/cat  pf)  TO  ftfivbv  irav  Tr6\fa>s  e£co 

"  Loyalty  and  worship  do  I  urge  upon  my  citizens  for 
a  polity  neither  anarchic  nor  tyrannical  ;  fear  must  not 
be  banished  utterly  from  the  State."  These  are  the 
words  of  Athena  ;  they  are  also  the  words  of  yEschylus 
—  a  solemn  warning  to  his  fellow-citizens  ;  finally,  they 
are  the  words  of  the  Furies  themselves  —  the  very 
phrases  which  they  have  used  are  here  borrowed  —  and 
go  far  to  explain  why  they  consent  to  relinquish  their 
prerogative.  First  they  have  regarded  the  Areopagus 
with  misgiving  as  a  possibly  hostile  tribunal  ;  then 
with  hatred  as  an  enemy  ;  at  the  last  they  look  upon 
it  with  benevolence  as  their  heir  to  those  stern  duties 
which  must  not  be  suffered,  under  whatever  ruler  of 
the  world,  to  fall  into  oblivion.  It  is  true  at  the  same 
time  that  the  poet  wished,  for  reasons  of  contemporary 
politics,  to  impress  upon  his  countrymen  the  sacredness 
of  this  ancient  court,  then  threatened  with  curtailment 
of  its  powers  and  prestige  at  the  hands  of  the  popular 
party  led  by  Pericles  and  Ephialtes  ;  and  the  manner 
in  which  he  weaves  this  consideration  of  temporal 
interests  into  the  fabric  of  a  vast  religious  poem  is  mag- 
nificently conceived.  What  in  a  smaller  man  would 
have  been  merely  a  vulgar  dexterity  is  sanctified  by 
religious  genius.  It  is  not  the  degradation  of  religion, 
but  the  apotheosis  of  politics.  The  close  of  the 
Eumenides  is  anything  but  an  anti-climax.  It  is  closely 
knit  to  the  body  of  the  whole  trilogy,  showing  the 
manner  in  which  the  playwright  supposes  the  necessary 
reconciliation  between  Zeus  and  the  Furies  to  be  made 
possible  and  acceptable.  The  King  of  Heaven  is 
mystically  identified  now  and  for  ever  with  Fate.2  The 
joyful  procession  of  TTPOTTO/ATTOI'  is  the  sign  not  only 
that  the  moral  government  of  the  world  has  been  set 

1  w.  696-8. 

"This   vital   point  is  admirably   demonstrated   by   Dr.    Verrall   on 
v.  1046. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  117 

at  last  upon  a  sure  basis,  but  also  that  this  govern- 
ment is  already  in  operation  and  sanctifying  human 
institutions. 

These  seven  plays  are  all  that  survive  complete 
of  the  eighty  l  tragedies  and  satyric  dramas  written  by 
^schylus.  Our  knowledge  of  the  lost  works  rests 
upon  some  hundreds  of  fragments  and  scattered  mention 
or  comment  in  ancient  writers. 

Most  interesting  and  important  are  those  plays 
which  were  associated  with  the  extant  dramas  ;  these 
have  been  already  discussed.  Next  in  attractiveness  is 
the  Lycurgea  (Av/cov/ayeta,  or  trilogy  of  Lycurgus),  to 
which  the  Bacchce  of  Euripides  had  close  affinity  in 
subject.  Lycurgus  was  a  king  of  the  Edoni,  a  Thracian 
people,  who  opposed  the  religion  of  Dionysus  when 
it  entered  his  realm,  and  was  punished  with  death. 
The  first  play,  the  Edoni  ('HScwoi),  depicted  the  col- 
lision between  Dionysus  and  his  enemy.  There  was 
an  interview  in  which  Lycurgus  taunted  the  god  with 
his  effeminate  looks,2  and  which  apparently  closed  with 
the  overthrow  of  his  palace  by  the  might  of  the  god.8 
The  longest  fragment  gives  an  interesting  account  of 
the  instruments  of  music  used  in  the  bacchic  orgies. 
The  name  of  the  second  play  is  not  certain  ;  it  was 
either  Bassarides  (Bao-crct/atSe?)  or  Bassarce  (Bacra-a/xu) 
— the  Women  of  the  Fawn-Skin.  Here  the  anger  of 
Dionysus  fell  upon  Orpheus  the  musician,  who  neglected 
the  new  deity  and  devoted  himself  to  Apollo.  He  was 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  Bacchantes  and  the  Muses  gathered 
his  remains,  to  which  they  gave  sepulture  in  Lesbos. 
The  Youths  (Neavi'crKOi)  formed  the  last  piece  of  the 
trilogy  ;  practically  nothing  is  known  of  it.  It  was 
the  chorus  which  gave  its  name  to  the  play  in  all  three 
cases.  The  satyric  drama  was  called  Lycurgus ;  if  we 
may  judge  from  one  of  the  three  fragments  the  tragic 

1  This  number  is  not  certain.     It  is  probably  an  under-statement. 

2  TToSaTi-os  6  yvvvts  ;  3  IvBovcna.  Si)  8a>/na,  /3a»cx«t/«  ortyij. 


118  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

treatment  of  wine  was  transformed  into  a  comic   dis- 
cussion of  beer.1 

Another  celebrated  trilogy  had  for  its  theme  the  tale 
of  Troy.  The  Myrmidons  (Mvp/AiSdi/es),  named  from  the 
followers  of  Achilles  who  formed  the  chorus,  dealt  with 
the  death  of  Patroclus.  Achilles,  withdrawn  from  battle 
because  of  his  quarrel  with  Agamemnon,  is  adjured  by 
the  chorus  to  pity  the  defeat  of  the  Greeks.  He  allows 
Patroclus,  his  friend,  to  go  forth  against  the  Trojans. 
After  doing  valiantly,  Patroclus  is  slain  by  Hector. 
The  news  is  brought  by  Antilochus  to  Achilles,  who 
gives  himself  up  to  passionate  lament.  This  play  was 
a  favourite  of  Aristophanes,  who  quotes  from  it  re- 
peatedly. In  this  drama  occurred  the  celebrated  simile 
of  the  eagle  struck  to  death  with  an  arrow  winged  by 
his  own  feathers,  which  was  cited  throughout  antiquity 
and  which  Byron  paraphrased  in  one  of  his  most  majestic 
passages.2  The  story  was  apparently  continued  in  the 
Nereides  (N^pT/t'Scs).  Achilles  determined  to  revenge 
Patroclus.  The  magic  armour  made  for  him  by 
Hephaestus  was  brought  by  his  mother  Thetis,  ac- 
companied by  her  sisters,  the  sea-nymphs,  daughters 
of  Nereus,  who  formed  the  chorus.  The  last  play  was 
the  Phrygians  (c&pvyc?)  or  Ransom  of  Hector  ("E/cTopo? 
Aurpa)  in  which  Priam  prevailed  upon  Achilles  to  give 
up  the  corpse  of  Hector  for  burial.  It  appears  likely 
that  in  the  two  preceding  plays  ^Eschylus  followed 
Homer  somewhat  closely.  But  in  the  Ransom  he  did 
not.  Besides  the  detail  to  which  Aristophanes  3  makes 
allusion,  that  Achilles  sat  for  a  long  time  in  complete 
silence,  no  doubt  while  the  chorus  and  Priam  offered 
piteous  and  lengthy  appeals,  there  are  differences  of  con- 
ception. In  Homer,  one  of  the  most  moving  features 
of  the  story  is  that  Priam  goes  to  the  Trojan  camp 


2  On  the  death  of  Kirk-  White  :  "  Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the 
fatal  blow,"  etc.  The  fiery  verse,  on-Xwv  oir\a>v  Set-  ^  irvdrj  TO  btvrtpov, 
recalls  the  famous  line  :  "  A  horse,  a  horse  !  My  kingdom  for  a  horse  1  " 

'Frees,  911-3. 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  119 

practically  alone.  He  is  met  by  the  God  Hermes  who 
conducts  him  to  the  tent  of  Achilles.  Then,  solitary 
among  his  foes,  he  throws  himself  upon  the  mercy  of 
his  son's  destroyer.  No  such  effect  was  to  be  found  in 
^Eschylus.  The  chorus  of  Phrygians  accompanied  their 
king,  and  we  find  in  a  fragment  of  Aristophanes l  a  hint 
of  much  posturing  and  stage-managed  supplication. 

The  Women  of  Etna  (AITIXUCU)  was  produced  in 
Sicily  at  the  foundation  of  Hiero's  new  city.  In  the 
Men  of  Eleusis  ('EXeucrtVtot)  ^schylus  dealt  with  the 
earliest  struggle  of  Athens — the  war  with  Eleusis,  his 
own  birth-place.  More  ambitious  in  its  topic  was  the 
Daughters  of  the  Sun  ('HXtctSes)  which  dealt  with  the 
fall  of  Phaethon.  A  pretty  fragment  alludes  to  that 
"bowl  of  the  Sun"  so  brilliantly  described  by  Mim- 
nermus,  in  which  the  god  travels  back  by  night  from 
West  to  East.  It  seems  that  the  geographical  enumera- 
tions prominent  in  the  Prometheus-trilogy  were  found 
here  also,  tinged  less  with  grimness  and  more  with 
romance.  In  the  Thracian  Women  (@/>i?cro-cu)  ^Eschylus 
treated  the  same  theme  as  Sophocles  in  the  Ajax.  It 
is  significant  that  the  death  of  the  hero  was  announced 
by  a  messenger.  Possibly,  then,  it  was  a  desire  for 
novelty  which  caused  the  younger  playwright  to  diverge 
so  strikingly  from  custom  as  to  depict  the  actual  suicide. 
The  Cabiri  (Ka/3eipoi)  was  the  first  tragedy  to  portray 
men  intoxicated.  In  the  Niobe  (Nio/ify)  occurred  splendid 
lines  quoted  with  approbation  by  Plato  : — 

Close  kin  of  heavenly  powers, 
Men  near  to  Zeus,  who  upon  Ida's  peak 
Beneath  the  sky  their  Father's  altar  serve, 
Their  veins  yet  quickened  with  the  blood  of  gods.8 

The  Philoctetes  is  the  subject  of  an  interesting  essay  by 

1  Meineke,  II,  p.  1177. 

*  ot  6(£>v  dyxi(riropoi 
ol  Zijvos  f'yyuj,  $>v  KOT'  'iSaiov  trdyov 
Ator  Trarpwov  /3co^i6?  ear'  e'v  aldepi, 
KOVTTO>  <T<faiv  e^in/Aov  al/ia  8aifJ.6v<av. 

Cp?  Plato,  Republic,  391  E, 


120  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Dio  Chrysostom.1  All  the  three  great  tragedians  wrote 
plays2  of  this  name,  and  Dio  offers  a  comparison. 
Naturally,  but  for  us  unfortunately,  he  assumes  a  know- 
ledge of  these  works  in  his  readers ;  still,  certain  facts 
emerge  about  the  ^schylean  work.  Men  of  Lemnos 
— the  island  on  which  Philoctetes  had  been  marooned — 
constituted  the  chorus.  To  them  the  hero  narrated 
the  story  of  his  desertion  by  the  Greeks,  and  his 
wretched  life  afterwards.  Odysseus  persuaded  him  to 
come  and  help  the  Greeks  at  Troy  by  a  long  recital 
of  Hector's  victory  and  false  reports  of  the  death  of 
Agamemnon  and  Odysseus.  Neither  Neoptolemus 
nor  Heracles  (important  characters  in  Sophocles)  seems 
to  have  been  introduced  by  ^Eschylus.  Dio  com- 
ments on  the  style  and  characterization.  The  primi- 
tive grandeur  of  yEschylus,  he  remarks,  the  austerity 
of  his  thought  and  diction,  appear  appropriate  to  the 
spirit  of  tragedy  and  to  the  manners  of  the  heroic  age. 
Odysseus  is  indeed  clever  and  crafty,  but  "  far  removed 
from  present-day  rascality";  in  fact  he  seems  "ab- 
solutely patriarchal  when  compared  with  the  modern 
school ".  That  the  play  is  named  after  one  of  the 
persons  and  not  the  chorus,  leads  one  to  attribute  it  to  a 
comparatively  late  period  in  the  poet's  life.  Finally,  the 
Weighing  of  the  Souls  (^vxoo-racria)  is  remarkable  for 
the  scene  in  Heaven,  modelled  upon  a  passage  in  the 
Iliad,  where  Zeus,  with  Thetis,  mother  of  Achilles,  on 
one  hand,  and  Eos,  mother  of  Memnon,  on  the  other, 
weighed  in  a  balance  the  souls  or  lives  of  the  two 
heroes  about  to  engage  in  fight  before  Troy. 

In  attempting  a  general  appreciation  of  this  poet 
one  should  avoid  making  the  error  of  judging  him 
practically  by  the  Agamemnon  alone.  Otherwise  we 
cannot  hope  to  understand  the  feeling  of  fifth  century 
Athens  towards  him.  Most  of  his  work  has  vanished, 
but  the  collection  we  possess  seems  fairly  representative 

1  Oration  52.  *  Only  one  has  survived,  that  of  Sophocles. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  121 

of  his  development ;  if  we  give  weight  to  his  compara- 
tively inferior  plays  we  may  understand  the  feeling  of 
two  such  different  men  as  Aristophanes  and  Euripides. 
Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  by  the  end  of  that  century 
^Eschylus  was  looked  on  as  half-obsolete.  Euripides 
thought  of  him  much  as  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw  now  thinks 
of  Shakespeare  ;  Aristophanes,  lover  of  the  old  order 
as  he  was,  seems  to  have  felt  for  the  man  who  wrote  the 
Agamemnon  a  breezy  half-patronizing  affection ;  while 
putting  him  forward  in  the  Frogs  to  discomfit  Euripides, 
he  handles  the  older  poet  only  less  severely  than  he 
handles  the  younger.  He  and  his  contemporaries 
viewed  ^Eschylus  as  a  whole,  not  fixing  their  eyes 
exclusively  on  his  final  trilogy. 

Let  us  consider  him  first  as  a  purely  literary  artist, 
a  master  of  language,  leaving  his  strictly  dramatic 
qualities  on  one  side.  We  find  that  his  three  great 
notes  are  grandeur,  simplicity,  and  picturesqueness.  To 
describe  the  grandeur  of  ^Eschylus  is  a  hopeless  task  ; 
some  notion  of  it  may  be  drawn  from  the  account  of  his 
individual  works  just  given,  but  the  only  true  method  is 
of  course  direct  study  of  his  writings.  The  lyrics,  from 
the  Supplices  to  the  Eumenides,  touch  the  very  height 
of  solemn  inspiration  and  moral  dignity  ;  as  it  has  been 
often  said,  his  only  peers  are  the  prophets  of  Israel. 
The  non-lyrical  portions  of  his  work,  stiff  with  gorgeous 
embroidery,  are  less  like  the  conversations  of  men  and 
women  than  the  august  communings  of  gods  ;  that 
majestic  poem  which  has  for  auditors  the  Sun  himself, 
the  rivers,  the  mountains,  and  the  sea,  and  for  back- 
ground the  whole  race  of  man,  is  not  merely  written 
about  Prometheus :  it  might  have  been  written  by 
Prometheus.  But  such  magnificence  has  its  perils. 
The  mere  bombast  for  which  Kyd  and  even  Marlowe 
are  celebrated,  and  which  has  given  us  such  things  as 

The  golden  sun  salutes  the  morn 
And,  having  gilt  the  ocean  with  his  beams, 
Gallops  the  zodiac  in  his  glistering  coach,1 

1  Titus  Andronicus,  II,  i.  5-7- 


122  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

was  not  unknown  to  ^Eschylus,  as  his  wayward  sup- 
porter Aristophanes  with  much  relish  demonstrates.  It 
seems  that  such  extravagances,  "  the  beefy  words,  all 
frowns  and  crests,  the  frightful  bogey-language," 
occurred  entirely  in  the  lost  plays.  But  in  those  which 
survive  we  have  much  bombast  of  phrase,  if  not  of 
words ;  the  "  thirsty  dust,  sister  and  neighbour  of 
mud,"  *  Zeus,  "  chairman  of  the  immortals,"  s 

Typhos,  who  belcheth  from  fire- reeking  mouth 
Black  fume,  the  eddying  sister  of  the  flame,4 

"  drill  these  words  through  thine  ears  with  the  quiet 
pace  of  thy  mind,"1'  "breathe  upon  him  the  gale  of 
blood  and  wither  him  with  the  reeking  fire  of  thine 
entrails  ".6  ^schylus,  indeed,  like  all  poets,  understood 
the  majesty  of  sounding  words,  apart  from  their  mean- 
ing. As  Milton  gloried  in  the  use  of  magnificent  proper 
names,  so  does  the  Athenian  delight  in  thunderous 
elaboration.  Therefore,  not  possessing  the  chastity  of 
Sophocles,  he  is  occasionally  barbarous  and  noisy ; 
Aristophanes7  jests  at  his  lyrics  for  their  frequent  ex- 
hibition of  sound  without  sense. 

Oddly  combined  with  this  occasional  savagery  of 
phrase  is  the  second  quality  of  simplicity,  ^schylus, 
so  far  as  we  know,  was  the  creator  of  tragic  diction. 
However  greatly  his  successors  improved  upon  him  in 
flexibility,  grace,  and  subtlety,  it  was  he  who  first  worked 
the  mine  of  spoken  language,  strove  to  purify  the  ore, 
and  forged  the  metal  into  an  instrument  of  terror  and 
delight.  But  even  the  creator  needed  practice  in  its 
use.  He  has  a  giant's  strength,  and  at  times  uses  it 
like  a  giant,  not  like  a  gymnast.  In  his  earlier  work 
he  seems  muscle-bound,  clumsy  in  the  use  of  his  new- 
found powers.  He  wields  the  pen  as  one  more  familiar 
with  the  spear ;  the  warrior  of  Marathon  does  fierce 

1  Frogs,  924-5. 

3  Ag.  494-5.     In  spite  of  Dr.  Yen-all's  ingenious  remarks,  it  seems 
best  to  take  this  phrase  in  the  traditional  way,  as  a  mere  extravagance. 
*  P.  V.  170.  4  Septem,  493-4.  *  Choeph.  451-2. 

"  Eum.  137-8.  7  Frogs^  1261-95. 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  123 

battle  with  particles  and  phrases  ;  he  strains  ideas  to 
his  breast  and  wrestles  with  elusive  perfection  ;  we  seem 
to  hear  his  panting  when  at  last  he  erects  as  trophy 
some  noble  speech  or  miraculous  lyric.  This  stiffness 
of  execution  persists  faintly  even  in  the  Oresteia.  The 
earlier  tragedies,  both  in  the  characters  and  in  the 
language,  are  rough-hewn,  for  all  their  glory.  In  the 
Supplices  this  stark  simplicity  is  actually  the  chief  note. 
Here,  more  than  elsewhere,  the  poet  has  a  strange  way 
of  writing  Greek  at  times  as  if  it  were  some  other 
language.  The  opening  words  of  the  Egyptian  herald 
— (TovarOe  crovcr#'  €7r!  fiapw  OTTW?  TroBotv  * — can  only  be 
described  as  barbaric  mouthing.  Throughout  this  play 
the  complete  absence  of  lightness  and  speed,  the  crude 
beginnings  of  greatness,  a  certain  bleak  amplitude,  are 
all  typical  of  a  new  art-form  not  yet  completely  evolved. 
The  poet,  himself  the  beginner  of  a  new  epoch,  fills  us 
with  an  uncanny  impression  of  persons  standing  on  the 
threshold  of  history  with  little  behind  them  but  the 
Deluge.  In  the  Persa  and  the  Septem  there  is  the 
same  instinct  for  spaciousness,  but  the  canvas  shows 
more  colour  and  less  of  the  bare  sky,  for  we  are  now 
more  conscious  of  background,  the  overthrow  of  Persia 
and  the  operations  of  human  sin. 

The  third  characteristic,  picturesqueness,  is  the  most 
obvious  of  all.  The  few  instances  of  bombastic  diction 
noted  above  are  but  the  necessary  failures  of  a  supreme 
craftsman.  Homer  does  not  stay  to  embroider  his  lan- 
guage with  metaphor,  which  belongs  to  a  more  reflective 
age ;  Pindar's  tropes  are  splendid  and  elaborate,  a  cal- 
culated jog  to  the  attention.  For  ^schylus,  metaphor 
seems  the  natural  speech,  unmetaphorical  language  a 
subtlety  which  requires  practice.  Danaus  in  his  perplex- 
ity ponders  "at  the  chess-board";2  when  the  assembly 
votes,  "  heaven  bristles  with  right  hands  "  ; 3  an  anxious 
heart  "  wears  a  black  tunic  "  ;  *  heaven  "  loads  the  scales  " 6 

1  Suppl.  836-7.  I  see  no  reason  for  supposing  that  the  Greek  is 
defective. 

*  Ibid.  12.  *  Ibid,  608.          '  Pcrsa,  115.          *  Ibid.  346- 


124  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

to  the  detriment  of  Persia  ;  the  trumpet  "  blazes  "  ;  *  mis- 
fortune "wells  forth";2  Amphiaraus  "reaps  the  deep 
furrow  of  his  soul"  ;3  "  the  sea  laughs  in  ripples  without 
number  "  ;4  the  snow  descends  "  with  snowy  wings  "  ; 6 
for  an  intrepid  woman  "  hope  treads  not  the  halls  of 
fear  "  ;'  "  Fate  the  maker  of  swords  is  sharpening  her 
weapon  "  ; 7  Anarchy  in  the  State  is  the  "  mixing  of  mud 
with  water  ".8  The  best  example  of  all  is  the  celebrated 
beacon-speech  in  the  Agamemnon  :  "The  flame  is  con- 
ceived as  some  mighty  spirit.  ...  It  '  vaults  over  the 
back  of  the  sea  with  joy ' ;  it  '  hands  its  message '  to 
the  heights  of  Macistus  ;  it  '  leaps  across  '  the  plain  of 
Asopus,  and  '  urges  on  '  the  watchmen  ;  its  '  mighty 
beard  of  fire '  streams  across  the  Saronic  gulf,  as  it 
rushes  along  from  peak  to  peak,  until  finally  it  '  swoops 
down  '  upon  the  palace  of  the  Atreidae."  8 

Allied  to  this  picturesqueness  of  phrase  is  a  pictu- 
resqueness  of  characterization  :  yEschylus  loves  to  give 
life  and  colour  even  to  his  subordinate  persons.  Attic 
literature  is  so  frugal  of  ornament  that  the  richness  of 
this  writer  gains  a  double  effect.  The  watchman  of  the 
Agamemnon  has  the  effect  of  a  Teniers  peasant ;  Orestes' 
nurse  in  the  Choephorce  is  a  promise  of  the  nurse  of 
Juliet ;  the  Egyptian  herald  conveys  with  amazing  skill 
the  harem-atmosphere — one  seems  to  see  that  he  is  a 
negro ;  Hermes  in  the  Prometheus  is  the  father  of  all 
stage  courtiers.  Again,  direct  appeals  to  the  eye  were 
made  by  various  quaint  devices — the  winged  car  of  the 
Ocean  Nymphs,  their  father's  four-legged  bird,  and  the 
"tawny  horse-cock"  (whatever  it  was)  which  so  puzzled 
Dionysus.10  Such  curiosities  were  meant  merely  as  a 
feast  for  the  idle  gaze,  at  first ;  but  the  serious  mind  of 
the  poet  turned  even  these  to  deeper  issues.  The  red 
carpets  of  the  Agamemnon,  and  the  king  treading  upon 
them  in  triumph,  provided  a  handsome  spectacle  to  the 

1  Perstz  395.  J  Ibid.  815.  *  Septem,  593. 

4  P.  V.  89-90.  */taf.  993.  *  Ag.  1434. 

7  Choeph.  647.  *  Eum.  694. 

9  Haigh,  Tragic  Drama,  pp.  82  sq.  ™  Frogs,  932. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  125 

eye ;  but  the  mind  at  the  same  instant  fell  into  grimmer 
bodements  as  the  doomed  man  seemed  to  walk  in  blood. 
So,  too,  the  word-pictures  which  please  the  ear  are  raised 
by  genius  to  an  infinitely  higher  power,  as  in  that  same 
scene,  when  Agamemnon  complains  of  the  waste  of 
purple  stuffs,  and  the  queen  seems  but  to  say  that  there 
is  dye  enough  left  in  the  sea  :  "  There  is  a  sea,  and  who 
shall  drain  it  dry  ?  "  The  meaning  of  the  words  is  as 
inexhaustible  as  the  ocean  they  tell  of,  revealing  abysses 
of  hatred  and  love  hellishly  intertwined,  courage  to  bear 
any  strain,  an  hereditary  curse  whose  thirst  for  blood  is 
never  sated,  a  bottomless  well  of  life. 

If  we  now  consider  ^Eschylus  on  his  purely  dramatic 
side,  as  a  builder  of  plays,  we  find  again  the  three  dis- 
tinctive notes,  grandeur,  simplicity,  and  picturesqueness. 
The  grandeur  of  his  architecture  is  an  authentic  sign  of 
his  massive  genius — it  by  no  means  depends  on  his 
selection  of  divine  or  terrific  figures  ;  the  Persa  and  the 
Septem  are  witnesses.  It  is  the  outcome  of  his  con- 
ception of  life  as  the  will  of  God  impinging  upon  human 
character,  ^schylus  knows  nothing  about  "puppets 
of  fate  ".  Around  and  above  men  is  a  divine  govern- 
ment about  which  many  things  may  be  obscure,  but  of 
which  we  surely  know  that  it  is  righteous  and  the  guardian 
of  righteousness.  Man  by  sin  enters  into  collision  with 
the  law.  The  drama  of  ^Eschylus  is  his  study  of  the 
will  and  moral  consciousness  of  man  in  its  efforts  to 
understand,  to  justify  to  itself,  and  to  obey  that  law. 
Supreme  justice  working  itself  out  in  terms  of  human 
will — such  is  his  theme.  Another  source  of  grandeur 
lies  in  the  perspectives  which  his  works  reveal.  This, 
perhaps  most  evident  in  the  Prometheus,  runs  through 
the  other  plays  ;  and  a  technical  result  of  this  power  is 
the  skill  with  which  the  whole  trilogies  are  wrought. 
To  compose  trilogies  rather  than  simple  tragedies  shows 
indeed  the  instinct  for  perspective  working  at  the  very 
heart  of  his  method.  Again,  if  this  instinct  likens  his 
work  to  painting,  still  more  are  we  led  by  historical  con- 
siderations to  make  a  comparison  with  sculpture.  It  has 


126  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

been  said  1  that  the  earliest  play  is  "  like  one  of  those 
archaic  statues  which  stand  with  limbs  stiff  and  counte- 
nance smiling  and  stony  ".  This  brilliant  simile  is  full 
of  enlightenment.  Just  as  those  early  Greek  statues 
which  seem  to  the  casual  observer  merely  distressing  are 
to  be  contrasted,  not  with  the  achievement  of  Praxiteles 
but  with  non- Hellenic  art,  the  winged  bulls  of  Assyria 
and  the  graven  hummocks  which  present  the  kings  of 
Egypt,  whereupon  we  perceive  the  stirrings  of  life  and 
beauty ;  so  should  the  Supplices,  were  it  only  in  our 
power,  be  compared  to  the  rigid  declamations  from  which, 
to  all  seeming,  tragedy  was  born.  In  the  Supplices 
tragedy  came  alive  like  the  marble  Galatea.  Daedalus 
was  reputed  to  have  made  figures  that  walked  and  ran  ; 
it  is  no  fable  of  ^schylus,  but  the  history  of  his  art. 

Simplicity,  the  second  note  of  ^schylus,  needs  little 
demonstration  after  the  detailed  account  of  his  plots. 
The  four  earlier  works  contain  each  the  very  minimum 
of  action.  The  characterization  is  noble,  but  far  from 
subtle.  All  the  persons  are  simply  drawn,  deriving 
their  effect  from  one  informing  concept  and  from  the 
circumstances  to  which  they  react.  Euripides  in  the 
Frogs*  fastens  upon  this,  remarking,  "You  took  over 
from  Phrynichus  an  audience  who  were  mere  fools  ". 
A  later  generation  demanded  smartness  and  subtlety ; 
^Eschylus  was  anything  but  artful,  and  so  the  same 
critic  accuses  him  of  obscurity  in  his  prologues.3  The 
Oresteia  exhibits  a  marked  advance  in  construction. 
Leaving  on  one  side  the  vexed  question  of  the  plot  in 
the  Agamemnon?  we  observe  in  the  Ckoephoroz  what  we 
may  call  intrigue.  Orestes  has  a  device  for  securing 
admission  to  the  palace  ;  the  libations  by  which  Clyta^m- 
nestra  intends  to  secure  herself  are  turned  into  a  weapon 
against  her ;  the  chorus  intercept  the  nurse  and  alter 
her  message  so  as  to  aid  the  conspiracy.  This  ingenuity 
is  perhaps  due  to  the  influence  of  Sophocles. 

1  Professor  Gilbert  Murray,  Literature  of  Ancient  Greece,  p.  217. 

*  vv.  908  sqq.  s  frogs,  1119  sqq. 

4  Dr.  Verrall's  theory  is  still,  I  believe,  accepted  only  by  a  minority. 


THE  WORKS  OF  AESCHYLUS  127 

Thirdly,  what  may  be  termed  picturesqueness  in 
structure  is  a  matter  of  vital  import  for  ^schylus.  To 
write  dramatically  is  to  portray  life  by  exhibiting  persons, 
the  vehicles  of  principles,  in  contact  and  collision.  For 
an  artist  of  the  right  bent,  it  is  not  difficult  to  select  a 
scene  of  history  or  an  imagined  piece  of  contemporary 
life  which  under  manipulation  and  polishing  will  show 
the  hues  of  drama.  But  the  earliest  of  dramatists  turns 
aside  in  the  main  from  such  topics.  His  favourite 
themes  are  the  deepest  issues,  not  of  individual  life,  but 
the  life  of  the  race,  or  the  structure  of  the  universe. 
What  is  the  relation  between  Justice  and  Mercy  ?  Why 
is  the  omnipotent  omniscient  ?  May  a  man  of  free  will 
and  noble  instincts  escape  a  hereditary  curse  sanctioned 
by  heaven  ?  Such  musings  demand  surely  a  quiet  un- 
hurried philosophic  poem,  not  the  decisive  shock  of 
drama.  ,/Eschylus  devoted  himself,  nevertheless,  not  to 
literature  in  the  fashion  of  Wordsworth,  but  to  tragedy. 
How  was  he  to  write  a  play  about  Justice  and  Mercy, 
to  discuss  a  compromise  between  the  rigidity  of  safe 
government  and  the  flexibility  of  wise  government? 
Justice  and  Mercy  are  both  essential  to  the  moral 
universe,  says  the  theologian — but  they  are  incom- 
patible. Friendship  and  strife  are  both  essential  to  the 
physical  universe,  says  Empedocles — but  how  can  they  be 
wedded  ?  This  impossibility  is  everywhere,  and  every- 
where by  miracle  it  is  achieved.  This  union  of  opposites 
pervades  the  world,  from  the  primitive  protoplasm  which 
must  be  rigid  to  resist  external  shock  but  flexible  to 
grow  and  reproduce  itself,  to  the  august  constitution  of 
the  eternal  kingdom  in  which  "righteousness  and  peace 
have  kissed  each  other  ".  Where,  then,  is  the  playwright 
to  find  foothold  ?  His  innumerable  instances  merge  into 
one  another,  ^schylus,  with  noble  audacity,  lifts  us 
out  of  the  current  of  time  and  imagines  a  special  instance, 
an  instance  which  presents  the  problem  in  dual  form — 
for  example  the  human  tangle  of  the  Atridean  house  and 
the  superhuman  conflict  between  Zeus  and  the  powers 
of  earth.  It  is  assumed  that  there  has  been  no  earlier, 


128  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

less  decisive,  jar.  In  the  future,  there  will  be  no  more. 
The  great  question  is  raised  once  for  all  in  its  completest, 
most  difficult  form.  The  gradual  processes  of  time  are 
abolished.  Thus  Atlas l  is  punished  by  condemnation 
to  the  task  of  upholding  heaven  for  ever  ;  how  it  was 
sustained  before  his  offence  is  a  question  we  must  not 
raise.  Hypermnestra2  is  put  on  trial  for  disobeying  her 
father  that  her  husband  may  live.  She  is  saved  by 
Aphrodite ;  and  the  innumerable  cases  of  conflicts  of 
duty  which  have  broken  hearts  in  days  past  are  summed 
up  (rather  than  disregarded)  by  this  ultimate  example. 
In  the  Oresteia  a  man  is  hunted  well-nigh  to  death  by 
fiends  because  he  has  obeyed  the  will  of  God.  Why  ? 
It  can  only  be  said  that  until  the  judgment  in  the 
Eumenides  all  is  nebulous,  the  world  is  being  governed 
desperately  as  by  some  committee  of  public  safety ; 
morals,  justice,  and  equity  are  still  upon  the  anvil. 
After  this  one  case  no  man  will  ever  again  be  tortured 
like  Orestes ;  nor  indeed,  we  may  conjecture,  will  the 
oracles  of  Zeus  issue  behests  so  merciless  as  that  which 
he  received. 

Finally,  something  should  be  said  about  ^schylus' 
views  on  religion.  Other  subjects  had  an  interest  for 
him,  geography,  history,  and  politics,8  but  his  never- 
failing  and  profound  interest  in  religion  overshadows 
these.  Not  only  was  he  interested  in  the  local  cults  of 
Athens,  as  were  his  great  successors  ;  he  is  at  home  in 
the  deepest  regions  of  theology.  Even  more  than  this, 
he  brings  back  strange  messages  from  the  eternal  world, 
he  seeks  to  purify  the  beliefs  of  his  fellows  by  his  deep 
sense  of  spiritual  fact ;  he  writes  the  chronicles  of  Heaven 
and  bears  witness  to  the  conquests  of  the  Most  High. 
Among  Greek  writers  he  is  the  most  religious,  and,  with 
Plato  and  Euripides,  most  alive  to  the  importance  of  be- 
lief to  the  national  health.  He  is  not  ashamed  of  the 

1  P.  V.  w.  350-2.  2  Danaides. 

3Cp.  Septem,  592-4  (Aristides),  P.V.  1068  (Themistocles),  and  the 
references  to  the  Areopagus  (vv.  681-710)  and  to  the  Athenian  Empire 
(vv.  398-401)  in  the  Eumenides. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  189 

traditional  gospel  when  he  thinks  it  true  :  "  the  act  comes 
back  upon  him  that  did  it ;  so  runs  the  thrice-old  saw  ".l 
Still  less  is  he  ashamed  to  denounce  false  maxims : 
"  From  of  old  hath  this  hoary  tale  been  spread  abroad 
among  men,  that  when  prosperity  hath  grown  to  its 
full  stature  it  brings  forth  offspring  and  dies  not  childless  ; 
yea,  that  from  good  hap  a  man's  posterity  shall  reap 
unendingly  a  harvest  of  woe.  But  I  stand  apart  from 
others,  nor  is  my  mind  like  theirs."1  This  originality 
and  sincere  mood  is  shown  everywhere.  Already  we 
have  noted  how  earnestly  just  he  is  towards  the  claims 
of  the  Furies.  The  case  was  no  foregone  conclusion  for 
him.  To  realize  how  terrible  the  quarrel  was  in  his  eyes 
we  have  only  to  imagine  our  feelings  had  Apollo  been 
defeated.  And  defeated  he  nearly  is  ;  the  human  judges 
vote  equally. 

The  poet's  clear  thinking  and  ethical  soundness  are 
shown  in  his  treatment  of  the  hereditary  Curse  or  At£ 
(o/nj).  Some  great  sin  brings  this  curse  into  being,  and 
it  oppresses  the  sinner's  family  with  an  abnormal  tendency 
to  further  crime.  But  the  descendants  are  not  forced  to 
sin.  The  action  of  the  curse,  according  to  yEschylus,  is 
upon  their  imagination.  When  some  temptation  to 
wrong-doing  occurs  to  them,  as  to  all  men,  they  may 
suddenly  remember  the  curse  and  exclaim  in  effect : 
"  Why  struggle  against  this  temptation  ?  our  house  is 
ridden  by  an  Ate  which  drives  us  to  sin  ".  Thus  they 
rush  upon  evil  with  a  desperate  gusto  and  abandon. 
So  Eteocles 3  cries  : — 

Since  Heav'n  thus  strongly  urges  on  th'  event, 
Let  Laius'  race,  by  Phoebus  loathed,  all,  all 
Before  the  wind  sweep  down  the  stream  of  Hell ! 

But  the  curse  can  be  resisted.  The  house  of  Atreus  fed 
its  curse  from  generation  to  generation  by  criminal  blood- 
shed. But  Orestes  shed  blood  only  at  the  behest  of 

1  Choeph.  313  sq.  :  Spdo-avrt  naddv,  rpiyepuv  fj.v6os  rdSf  (^wvet, 

2  Ag,  750-7.  3  Septem,  689-9 l  • 


130  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Heaven,  and  so  combined  necessary  vengeance  with  in- 
nocence.    Thus  the  curse  was  laid  to  rest.1 

The  revision  to  which  he  subjected  the  myths  of 
popular  religion  is  therefore  characteristic.  There  were 
four  leading  phenomena  which  it  was  necessary  some- 
how to  co-ordinate  if  a  consistent  faith  was  to  be  possible. 
First,  there  was  the  Olympian  hierarchy,  the  object  of 
the  State-religion  at  Athens  as  elsewhere.  Secondly, 
there  was  Chthonian  religion  or  the  worship  of  earth- 
powers.  Thirdly,  there  was  the  vague,  less  personal, 
power  called  Fate.  And  lastly,  there  was  conscience, 
the  feeling  that  sin  polluted  the  soul,  not  merely  the 
hands  of  the  wrong-doer.2  None  of  these  four  con- 
ceptions was  by  itself  adequate  in  the  eyes  of  ^schylus. 
The  Olympians,  though  the  rulers  of  men  and  on  the 
whole  their  friends,  were  according  to  universal  report 
stained  with  all  the  crimes  of  humanity.  The  earth- 
deities  ruled  only  by  fear  ;  they  punished  but  they  did  not 
inspire  ;  nor  was  it  clear  that  their  power  was  not  some- 
how subordinate  to  that  of  Heaven.  Fate  was  imper- 
sonal and  had  no  moral  aspect  on  which  men  could  base 
their  understanding  of  its  law.  The  conception  of  per- 
sonal righteousness  had  no  visible  basis  in  the  scheme  of 
things  ;  there  was  no  power  outside  man  who  guaranteed 
the  authenticity  of  his  thirst  for  holiness.  When  once 
.^Eschylus  set  out  on  his  self-appointed  path,  he  brooked 
no  obstacle.  First,  as  to  the  Olympian  gods,  he  ex- 
plains away  the  difficulties.  Most  of  them  are  frankly 
ignored,3  edifying  accounts  being  substituted  for  them  ; 
some  few  are  accepted  with  a  shrug.4  Zeus  is  no  longer 
the  head  of  a  turbulent  confederacy  ;  he  has  become  the 
father  and  lord  of  powers  who  obey  him  implicitly  and 

1  Choeph.  1076. 

2  jEschylus  never  worked  himself  entirely  free  from  this  savage  con- 
ception of  sin  as  a  material  defilement.     Orestes,  among  the  proofs  that 
he  has  expiated  his  offence,    mentions   the   use  of  swine's   blood    as   a 
cleansing  power  (Eum.  v.  283). 

3  See   Dr.   Verrall's  discussion  of  the  prologue  to  the  Eumenides, 
Euripides  the  Rationalist,  pp.  220-4. 

4  Eum.  vv.  640-51. 


THE  WORKS  OF  ^SCHYLUS  131 

derive  their  prerogatives  from  his  will.  The  earth- 
deities,  as  has  been  shown,  surrender  their  moral  func- 
tions and  become  mere  spirits  of  fertility,  localized,  in 
the  case  of  the  Furies,  upon  Attic  soil.  Nothing,  even 
in  this  writer,  is  more  audacious  than  the  monotheistic 
fervour  which  transforms  these  terrific  beings  into  a 
species  of  fairy.  Fate,  again,  is  mysteriously  assimilated 
to  Zeus  ;  the  unvarying  laws  of  the  universe  are  invested 
with  a  moral  tendency  and  a  personal  will.  And  lastly, 
the  conception  of  human  holiness  finds  its  sanction  in 
that  will.  Zeus  bids  us  be  righteous,  and  our  faith 
affirms  that  he  will  punish  the  guilty  and  reward  the 
good. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES 

OF  more  than  a  hundred  plays  written  by 
Sophocles,  only  seven  survive  entire.  These 
shall  now  be  discussed  in  what  is  probably 
the  chronological  order. 

The  AjAX1  (Atas,  sometimes  called  Ata?  /Ltao-rtyo- 
<f>6pos,  from  his  scourging  of  the  cattle)  cannot  be  dated. 
It  is  generally  agreed  that  this  work  and  the  Antigone 
are  the  two  earliest  extant  plays  ;  which  of  the  two  was 
produced  first  it  is  difficult  to  say.2  Perhaps  an  im- 
portant feature  of  technique  settles  this — both  tragedies 
need  three  actors,  but  the  Ajax  in  this  respect  is  more 
tentative  than  the  Antigone. 

The  scene  is  laid  before  the  tent  of  Ajax  on  the 
plain  of  Troy.  Enraged  by  the  action  of  the  Greeks 
in  awarding  to  Odysseus  instead  of  to  himself  the  arms 
of  the  dead  Achilles,  Ajax  sought  to  slay  Agamemnon, 
Menelaus,  and  others  in  their  sleep.  The  goddess 
Athena  sent  madness  upon  him  so  that  he  slaughtered 
cattle  in  their  stead.  Coming  to  himself  he  realizes 
his  shame,  and  eluding  his  friends — the  chorus  of 
Salaminian  sailors  and  the  Trojan  captive,  Tecmessa 
(who  has  borne  him  a  son), — he  retires  to  a  lonely  spot 
by  the  sea  and  falls  upon  his  sword.  His  brother 
Teucer  returns  too  late  to  save  him,  but  in  time  to 
confront  and  defy  Agamemnon  and  Menelaus,  who 

1  Arrangement :  protagonist,  Ajax,  Teucer  (Ajax,  when  dead,  is  repre- 
sented by  a  lay  figure)  ;  deuteragonist,  Odysseus,  Tecmessa ;  tritagonist, 
Athena,  messenger,  Menelaus,  Agamemnon. 

a  For  the  arguments  see  Jebb's  Introduction  (pp.  li-liv)  to  the 
He  thinks  Antigone  the  earlier. 

132 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  183 

have  decreed  that  Ajax'  body  shall  be  left  unburied. 
At  length  Agamemnon  is  induced  by  Odysseus  to  forgo 
his  purpose. 

No  Greek  play  gains  so  much  by  re-reading  as 
the  Ajax.  The  character  of  the  hero  steadily  grows 
on  us  ;  it  is  not  that  we  admire  him  more,  but  that 
we  feel  a  deeper  sympathy.  As  he  gains  in  clearness, 
he  lifts  the  other  characters  into  the  light.  Ajax  is  a 
man  dowered  with  nobility,  sensitiveness,  and  self-re- 
liance, but  ruined  by  the  excess  of  those  qualities.  His 
nobility  has  become  ambition,  his  sensitiveness  morbidity, 
his  self-reliance  pride.  He  offends  Heaven  by  his 
haughtiness,  and  is  humbled  ;  then,  rather  than  accept 
his  lesson,  he  shuns  disgrace  by  suicide.  This  resolution 
is  strong  enough  to  overbear  the  appeals  of  Tecmessa 
and  the  silent  sway  of  his  little  son  ;  he  faces  death 
calmly  and  even  thoughtfully.  Grouped  round  the 
central  figure  are  first  Tecmessa  and  Teucer,  and  on 
a  lower  plane  Odysseus,  Menelaus,  Agamemnon,  and 
the  chorus.  Athena  stands  apart. 

Tecmessa  is  one  of  the  loveliest  creations  of  So- 
phocles ;  there  clings  about  her  a  silvery  charm 
which  is  strangely  refreshing  amid  the  turbid  grandeur 
of  the  play.  Tenderness,  patience,  courage  —  these  are 
commonplace  enough  upon  the  stage  ;  yet  Sophocles 
has  made  of  them  something  frail  but  indestructible, 
and  touched  her  with  his  own  greatest  charm  —  an 
unearthly  eloquence  of  which  we  shall  speak  later  :  — 


dXX'  to"xe  Kapov  p-vrjcmv.      dvSpi  roi 

irpovelvai,  Tfpirvov  d  ri  irov  irddot.1 


When  Ajax  is  dead,  it  is  she,  not  Teucer  (as  Ajax 
had  hoped)  who  finds  the  body,  and  this  marvel  of 
quiet  tenderness  gleams  forth  again.  She  hardly 
laments  at  all  ;  the  chorus  who  accompany  her  are 
more  moved.  So  accustomed  is  she  to  sorrow  and 
self-repression  that  grief  is  her  natural  element  ;  she 

1  vv.  520-1  :  "  Nay,  have  thought  even  of  me.  A  man  should  sure  be 
mindful  of  any  joy  that  hath  been  his."  But  of  course  the  quality  spoken 
of  evaporates  in  such  a  "  translation  ". 


134  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

utters  a  few  quiet  words  of  noble  pity,  and  when  the 
sailors  press  forward  to  view  the  dead  she  gently 
says  "  ye  must  not  look  on  him,"  and  covers  the  body 
with  a  robe.  Her  self-command  is  so  absolute  that 
it  can  bend;  she  will  even  say  "Alas!  What  shall 
I  do  ?  "  when  confronted  with  a  mere  perplexity  about 
the  removal  of  the  corpse. 

Teucer  is  Ajax  himself  without  the  madness  and 
the  illumination  ;  he  stands  in  the  same  relation  to  his 
half-brother  as  Mark  Antony  in  Shakespeare  to  Julius 
Caesar  ;  he  is  an  ideal  presenter  of  Ajax'  claims  if  they 
are  to  be  presented  at  all  to  people  like  Menelaus  and 
Agamemnon.  Menelaus  is  more  active  in  debate,  more 
brilliantly  vulgar,  than  his  brother,  who  wisely  takes 
his  stand  upon  general  principles,  and  hardly  mentions 
at  all  the  decision  not  to  bury  Ajax.  Agamemnon  is 
conscious  of  his  weak  position  ;  finally,  he  succeeds  in 
retiring  without  complete  loss  of  dignity.  Odysseus  is 
apparently  intended  as  the  antithesis  to  Ajax — discreet, 
forgiving,  and  impressed  by  the  power  of  Heaven. 
Though  but  a  sketch,  he  is  a  striking  figure  ;  after 
all  the  anguish  and  outcry,  it  is  the  normal  man  who 
emerges  as  the  pivot  of  events  and  saves  the  situation. 

The  Salaminian  sailors  offering  no  special  features, 
there  remains  only  Athena,  who  dominates  the  "pro- 
logue". In  contrast  with  the  fully-developed  beings 
whom  we  have  studied  in  the  Oresteia  she  is  amazingly 
crude.  The  fact  is  that  we  ought  not  to  consider  her 
"character"  at  all.  She  is  simply  divine  punishment 
roughly  (but  not  casually)  personified  and  given  the 
name  Athena.  She  gloats  over  the  madman  whom 
even  the  mortal  standing  beside  her  pities,  and  the 
only  lesson  she  draws  for  him  is  that  men  must  shun 
pride.  It  is  natural,  but  useless,  to  call  her  a  fiend  ;  she 
serves  merely  as  the  visible  and  audible  symbol  that 
Heaven  punishes  haughty  independence  of  spirit. 
That  instead  of  mere  evolutions  of  puppets  we  have  a 
striking  drama  is  due  simply  to  the  fact  that  Sophocles 
is  interested  far  more  in  Ajax  than  in  the  goddess. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  135 

Two  real  or  apparent  defects  must  be  noted. 
Firstly,  we  are  shocked,  or  we  should  be  shocked,  by 
the  actions  (if  not  the  character)  of  Ajax — a  point  often 
disregarded,  probably  through  an  idea  that  his  bloodshed 
was  caused  by  madness.  But  the  goddess,  by  so  de- 
luding him,  turned  his  rage  from  man  to  beast.  He 
makes  a  deliberate  attempt  to  murder  the  Atridse  in  their 
sleep,  together  with  an  indefinitely  large  number  of  their 
followers,  and  this  in  the  course  of  a  campaign.  It  can 
hardly  be  doubted  that  the  doom  pronounced  by  the 
general,  that  such  a  man  (to  ignore  his  personality  for 
the  moment)  shall  not  be  buried,  would  have  met  with 
faint  reprobation,  either  at  the  time  supposed  or  among 
the  contemporaries  of  the  poet.  Again,  the  indifference 
with  which  Ajax  treats  Tecmessa  amounts  to  sheer 
brutality.  Many  readers  have  supposed  that  the  prince 
cherishes  affection  for  her,  but  conceals  it  under  a  show 
of  roughness  to  avoid  "  breaking  down ".  This  is  a 
mere  fancy.  Nothing  in  Ajax'  conduct,  and  practically l 
nothing  in  his  words,  betrays  any  interest  whatsoever 
in  Tecmessa.  The  man  is  absorbed  almost  entirely  by 
his  sense  of  wounded  dignity.  He  bids  an  affectionate 
farewell  to  his  child,  he  speaks  lovingly  of  his  own 
parents  and  of  Teucer ;  but  nothing  can  prevent  him 
from  escaping  disgrace  by  self-destruction.  When  about 
to  fall  upon  his  sword  he  mingles  with  his  farewells  a 
fierce  behest  to  the  Furies  to  destroy  the  whole  Greek 
host  which  has  slighted  him.  So  far  as  the  first  part  of 
this  tragedy  is  concerned,  Ajax  is  a  magnificent  brute  ; 
he  is  better  dead. 

The  second  difficulty  is  that  Ajax  dies  at  v.  865,  but 
the  play  continues  for  five  or  six  hundred  lines  more. 
This  great  space  is  occupied  by  a  long  dispute  about 
his  burial,  which  modern  readers  find  tedious.  But  the 
difficulty  arises  from  a  mischievous  idea  that  the  culmina- 
tion of  every  tragedy  is  the  hero's  death.  Often  it  is  only 

1  In  the  address  to  his  child  he  throws  a  half-line  to  the  mother 
(v-  559)  and  at  the  beginning  of  his  disguised  farewell  to  the  chorus  he  ex- 
presses pity  for  Tecmessa  (vv.  650-3),  but  there  is  nothing  to  show  that 
this  is  not  feigned,  like  his  implied  renunciation  of  suicide. 


136  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

a  step  towards  the  real  crisis.  I  n  Ajax  the  theme  is  not 
his  death,  but  his  rehabilitation  :  the  disgrace,  the  suicide, 
the  veto  on  his  burial,  Teucer's  defiance,  the  persuasions 
of  Odysseus,  are  all  absolutely  necessary.  The  culmi- 
nating point  is  the  dispute  about  his  burial,  especially 
since  Ajax  was  one  of  the  Attic  "heroes,"  and  the 
centre  of  a  hero's  cult  was  his  tomb.1  This  explanation 
enables  us  to  regard  the  whole  play  as  an  organic  unity. 
It  helps,  moreover,  to  meet  the  first  difficulty  —  the  char- 
acter of  Ajax.  It  must  be  remembered  that  a  man  be- 
came a  "  hero  "  not  necessarily  through  any  nobility  or 
holiness  of  his  life.  It  was  rather  the  fact  that  he  had 
passed  through  strange,  unnatural  experiences,  had  even 
committed  morbid  crimes,  so  long  as  those  offences  were 
purged  by  strange  sufferings  and  death,  violent,  super- 
human, or  pitiable.  Such  was  CEdipus,  and  such  is 
Ajax.  Greek  feeling  would  have  made  a  "  hero  "  of 
Lear,  of  Hamlet,  perhaps  of  Othello.  Ajax  is  a  man  of 
essentially  noble  mould  —  this  the  speeches  of  Teucer  ex- 
press admirably  —  who  sins  deeply  and  suffers  strangely. 
That  he  happens  to  evoke  less  admiration  from  us  than 
the  other  tragic  figures  just  mentioned  matters  little. 
Lack  of  tenderness  towards  women  was  the  rule  at 
Athens  ;  and  hatred  of  enemies,  which  Ajax  carried  to 
such  insane  length,  was  commoner  still.  But  what  of 
the  lowered  tone  which  marks  the  end  of  the  tragedy  ? 
Teucer's  speech  on  the  warlike  achievements  of  his 
brother  is,  indeed,  beyond  praise  ;  but  much  of  his  other 
remarks,  and  of  the  language  held  by  the  Atridse,  is 
mere  brawling.  But  these  quarrels  bring  into  relief  the 
proud  nobility  of  the  man  who  lies  between  the  disput- 
ants, dead  because  he  would  not  stay  to  rehabilitate  him- 
self by  such  bickering. 

The  ANTIGONE1  ('A^riyo^)  was  produced  about  441 


1  See  Jebb's  Introduction  to  the  play  (pp.  xxviii-xxxii). 

3  The  arrangement  is  uncertain.  Jebb  gives,  protagonist  :  Anti- 
gone, Tiresias,  Eurydice  ;  deuteragonist  :  Ismene,  guard,  Haemon,  the 
messengers  ;  tritagonist  :  Creon.  Croiset  gives,  protagonist  :  Antigone, 
Haemon  ;  deuteragonist  :  Ismene,  guard,  Tiresias,  messengers  ;  trita- 
gonist :  Creon,  Eurydice. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  137 

B.C.  The  scene  is  laid  before  the  palace  at  Thebes,  on 
the  morning  after  the  repulse  of  the  Argives  who  had 
come  to  restore  Polynices.  Creon,  King  of  Thebes, 
publishes  an  edict  that  no  one  shall  give  burial  to  the 
corpse  of  Polynices  on  pain  of  death.  Antigone,  sister 
of  the  dead  man,  despite  the  advice  of  her  sister  Ismene, 
performs  the  rite  and  is  haled  before  Creon.  She  insists 
that  his  edict  cannot  annul  the  unwritten  primeval  laws 
of  Heaven.  The  king,  disregarding  the  admonitions  of 
his  son  Haemon,  betrothed  to  Antigone,  sends  her  to 
the  cave  of  death.  The  prophet  Tiresias  warns  him 
that  the  gods  are  angered  by  the  pollution  which  comes 
from  the  unburied  corpse.  Urged  by  the  chorus,  Creon 
relents,  and  hastens  first  to  bury  Polynices,  then  to 
release  Antigone,  who  has,  however,  already  hanged 
herself.  Harmon  stabs  himself  by  her  body.  On  hear- 
ing of  his  death  his  mother  Eurydice,  wife  of  Creon, 
commits  suicide.  The  play  ends  with  Creon's  helpless 
grief. 

This  play  is  perhaps  the  most  admired  of  Sophocles' 
works.  But  the  admiration  often  rests  on  a  misunder- 
standing. It  is  customary  to  regard  Antigone  as  a 
noble  martyr  and  Creon  as  a  stupidly  cruel  tyrant,  be- 
cause of  an  assumption  that  she  must  be  what  a  similar 
figure  would  be,  and  often  has  been,  in  a  modern  play. 
Memories  of  Cordelia  confronting  Lear,  of  Dorothea  in 
The  Virgin  Martyr  of  Massinger  and  Dekker,  beguile 
us  so  that  we  read  that  character  into  the  play.  The 
principle  upheld  by  Antigone,  and  that  upheld  by  Creon, 
ax  &  prima  facie  of  equal  validity.  The  poet  may,  pos- 
sibly, agree  with  Antigone  rather  than  with  the  king, 
but  the  current  belief,  that  the  princess  is  splendidly 
right  and  her  oppressor  ignobly  wrong,  stultifies  the 
play  ;  it  would  become  not  tragedy  but  crude  melo- 
drama. In  judging  Attic  literature  there  is  nothing 
which  it  is  more  vital  to  remember  than  the  immense 
importance  attached  by  Athenians  to  the  State  and  its 
claims.  We  are  alive  to  the  sanctity  of  human  life,  but 
think  far  less  of  the  sanctity  of  national  life.  An  English 


138  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

reader,  therefore,  regards  Creon  with  all  the  reprobation 
which  his  treatment  of  Antigone  can  possibly  deserve ; 
but  whatever  justification  is  inherent  in  the  case  he 
almost  ignores. 

The  truth  is  that  Creon  commits  a  terrible  act  owing 
to  a  terrible  provocation.  His  act  is  the  insult  to 
Polynices'  body,  which  he  maintains  at  the  cost  of  Anti- 
gone's life ;  his  justification  is  the  fact  that  the  dead 
man,  though  a  Theban,  was  attacking  Thebes  and 
would  have  destroyed  the  State.  Antigone  stands  for 
respect  to  private  affection,  Creon  for  respect  to  the 
community.  It  is  impossible  to  say  at  the  outset  which 
is  the  more  important,  and  the  problem  may  well  be 
insoluble.  But  it  is  precisely  because  of  this  that  the 
Antigone  is  a  tragedy.  To  accept  the  customary  view, 
and  yet  insist  that  Sophocles  is  a  great  dramatist,  is 
mere  superstition  ;  the  work  becomes  the  record  of  an 
insane  murder.  On  a  priori  grounds,  then,  we  may  be- 
lieve that  Sophocles  by  no  means  condemns  Creon  off- 
hand. It  is  not  satisfactory  to  argue  that  Thebes  should 
have  been  satisfied  with  the  death  of  the  invader. 
Since  he  was  a  Theban  his  attack  was  looked  on  as  the 
foulest  treachery,  which  merited  extreme  penalty,  both 
by  way  of  revenge  and  as  a  warning  to  others.  (Just 
the  same  view  is  held  by  the  authorities  in  the  Ajax.} 
The  play  presents  a  problem  both  for  the  king  and  for 
his  kinswoman  :  "  I  am  right  to  punish  this  traitor's 
corpse ;  am  I  justified  in  killing  others  who  thwart  the 
punishment  ?  "  "I  am  right  to  show  love  and  pity  for 
my  dead  brother  ;  am  I  justified  in  flouting  the  State  ?  " 
Antigone  is  only  Creon  over  again  with  a  different 
equipment  of  sympathies.  That  one  loves  his  country 
with  a  cold  concentration  which  finds  enemies  and 
treachery  everywhere,  while  the  other  passionately  loves 
her  dead  brother,  should  not  blind  us  to  the  truth 
that  Antigone  has  all  Creon's  hardness  and  narrowness, 
and  especially  all  his  obstinacy.  That  tenderness  and 
womanly  affection  which  we  attribute  to  the  princess  are 
amiable  inventions  of  our  own,  except  the  love  which 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  139 

she  bears  Polynices.  This  love  is  not  to  be  in  any  sense 
belittled,  but  it  is  simply  an  instinct,  like  that  of  Creon 
in  matters  of  State,  an  instinct  to  which  she  will,  like 
him,  sacrifice  all  else.  If  Creon  sacrifices  Antigone  for 
his  ideal,  she  sacrifices  Haemon  for  hers.  He  shows 
brutality  to  his  son,  she  to  her  sister.  That  a  com- 
promise between  the  demands  of  the  State  and  private 
conscience  is,  however  unwelcome,  necessary,  never  oc- 
curs to  either  party,  and  those  who,  like  Harmon  and 
Ismene,  urge  such  a  thought  upon  them  are  insulted. 
This  blindness  to  the  psychology  of  Antigone  has  led 
to  actual  meddling  with  Sophocles'  text.  In  her  last 
long  speech  occurs  a  celebrated  "  difficulty,"  namely, 
her  statement 1  that  if  the  dead  man  had  been  a  child  or 
husband  of  hers,  she  would  not  thus  have  given  her  life  ; 
but  the  case  of  Polynices  is  different,  since  (her  father 
and  mother  being  dead)  she  can  never  have  another 
brother.  These  lines  are  generally  bracketed  as  spuri- 
ous because  unworthy  of  Antigone's  character  and  in- 
consistent with  the  reason  for  her  act  which  she  has 
already 2  given,  namely,  the  "  unwritten  and  unshaken 
laws  of  Heaven  ".  Any  idea  that  the  passage  was  in- 
serted in  "  later  times  "  is  rendered  impossible  by  the 
fact  that  Aristotle3  quotes  it  (about  340  B.C.)  and  the 
presumption  is  that  the  words  are  the  poet's  own.  In- 
deed, the  "  difficulty  "  exists  only  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  attribute  inconsistency  in  a  character  to  incom- 
petence in  the  playwright.  But  while  illogical  people 
exist  it  is  hard  to  see  why  a  dramatist  should  not  depict 
them.  Antigone's  "  reason "  is  stupid,  no  doubt,  but 
what  could  be  more  dramatic?  It  is  no  novelty  that  a 
person  capable  of  courageous  action  cannot  argue  well 
about  it ;  there  is  a  logic  of  the  heart  that  has  little  to 
do  with  the  logic  of  the  brain.  Antigone  has  no  reasons  ; 
she  has  only  an  instinct.  Here,  and  here  only,  Sophocles 
has  pressed  this  point  home,  and  the  popular  view  has 
no  resource  but  to  reject  the  passage. 

1  vv.  904-12.     See  Jebb's  discussion  in  his  Appendix. 

2  vv.  450-70.  *  Rhetoric,  III,  xvi.  9. 


140  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Whom  does  Sophocles  himself  approve,  the  king  or 
his  opponent  ?  Neither.  Attention  to  the  plot  will  make 
this  clear.  The  peripeteia  or  "  recoil  "  is  the  revelation 
that  the  gods  are  angered  by  the  pollution  arising  from 
the  body,  and  that  owing  to  their  anger  grave  peril 
threatens  Creon's  family.  It  is  this  news  which  causes 
his  change  of  purpose.  Polynices  is  therefore  buried  by 
the  king  himself  despite  his  edict.  These  facts  show 
that  ultimately  both  Antigone  and  Creon  are  wrong. 
Heaven  is  against  Creon,  as  he  is  forced  at  last  to  see- 
Antigone's  appeal  to  the  everlasting  unwritten  laws  is  in 
this  sense  justified.  But  Antigone  is  wrong  also.  She 
should  have  left  the  gods  to  vindicate  their  own  law. 
Such  a  statement  may  seem  ignobly  oblivious  of  religion, 
human  nature,  and  the  courage  which  she  shows.  But 
it  is  not  denied  that  Antigone  is  noble  and  valiant :  she 
may  be  both,  yet  mistaken  and  wrong-headed.  One  is 
bound  to  consider  the  facts  of  the  plot.  Why  is  she  at 
first  undetected  yet  compelled  by  circumstances  to  per- 
form the  "burial "-rites  twice?  Simply  to  remind  us 
that,  if  Creon  is  resolved,  she  cannot  "bury"  Polynices. 
The  king  has  posted  guards,  who  remove  the  pious  dust 
which  she  has  scattered ;  and  this  gruesome  contest 
could  continue  indefinitely.  She  throws  away  her  life, 
and  with  no  possible  confidence  that  her  brother  will  in 
the  end  be  buried.  It  is  precisely  this  blindness  of  hers 
which  makes  the  tragedy — her  union  of  noble  courage 
and  unswerving  affection  with  inability  to  see  the  crude 
facts  of  a  hateful  situation.  Her  obstinacy  brings  about 
the  punishment  of  Creon's  obstinacy,  for  Eurydice's 
death  is  caused  by  Haemon's,  and  Haemon's  by  Anti- 
gone's. Had  she  not  intervened  all  these  lives  would 
have  been  saved.  The  whole  action  might  have 
dwindled  to  a  mere  revolting  incident :  the  king's 
barbarity,  the  anger  of  the  gods,  and  the  king's  sub- 
mission. The  tragedy  would  have  disappeared  :  it  is 
Antigone's  splendid  though  perverse  valour  which 
creates  the  drama. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  141 

A  difficulty  of  structure  has  been  found l  in  the  fact 
that  Creon,  despite  his  haste  to  free  Antigone,  tarries 
for  the  obsequies  of  Polynices.  Why  does  he  not  save 
the  living  first  ?  This  "  problem  "  arises  merely  from 
our  insistence  on  the  overwhelming  importance  of  Anti- 
gone and  our  disregard  of  the  real  perspective.  The 
explanation  is  simply  that  Creon  has  just  been  warned 
of  the  grave  danger  to  the  whole  State  and  his  family 
from  the  anger  with  which  the  gods  view  his  treatment 
of  Polynices — an  offence  which  Tiresias  emphasizes  far 
more  than  that  against  Antigone  ;  and  the  community, 
nay,  even  the  several  persons  of  Creon's  family,  are  more 
important  than  one  woman. 

The  lyrics  of  this  play  are  among  the  finest  in  exist- 
ence. The  first  ode  expressing  the  relief  of  Thebes  at 
the  destruction  of  the  ravening  monster  of  war,  the  third 
which  describes  the  persistence  of  sorrow  from  genera- 
tion to  generation  of  the  Theban  princes,  the  brief  song 
which  celebrates  the  all-compelling  influence  of  love,  with 
its  exquisite  reminiscence  of  Phrynichus,2  the  last  lyric,  a 
graceful  invocation  to  the  God  Dionysus,  and  above  all, 
the  famous  ode  upon  man  and  his  quenchless  enterprise, 
all  these  are  truly  Attic  in  their  serene,  somewhat  frigid, 
loveliness. 

The  ELECTRAS  ('HXeViyxx)  has  by  most4  critics  been 
regarded  as  next  in  time  to  the  Antigone,  The  scene 
shows  the  palace  of  Agamemnon  now  inhabited  by 
his  murderers,  Clytsemnestra  and  her  lover  ^gisthus. 
Orestes,  son  of  Agamemnon,  returns  to  avenge  him  by 
slaying  his  own  mother  Clytsemnestra ;  he  is  accom- 
panied by  Pylades,  his  friend,  and  by  an  old  slave. 
Chrysothemis,  daughter  of  Agamemnon  and  sister  of 
Electra,  is  sent  by  Clytsemnestra  to  appease  the  ghost 
of  Agamemnon,  but  is  persuaded  by  Electra  to  pray  his 

1  J ebb's  Introduction,  pp.  xvii-xx.  2See  pp.  8,  15. 

3  Arrangement  probably  :  protagonist,  Electra  ;  deuteragonist,  Orestes 
and  Clytaemnestra ;  tritagonist,  Paedagogus,  Chrysothemis,  yfigisthus. 

4  Jebb,  however,  gives  substantial  reasons  for  putting  it  later.     See  his 
Introduction,  pp.  Ivi-lviii. 


142  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

help  for  Orestes.  The  slave  of  Orestes  brings  false 
news  to  the  palace  that  Orestes  has  been  killed  in  a 
chariot-race  at  Delphi,  so  that  the  queen  is  relieved 
from  fear  of  vengeance.  Chrysothemis  returns,  joyfully 
announcing  Orestes'  arrival — she  has  seen  a  lock  of  his 
hair  on  the  tomb  ;  but  her  sister  replies  that  he  is  dead. 
While  Electra  mourns  for  her  brother  he  himself  brings 
in  an  urn,  pretending  to  be  a  messenger  who  has  con- 
veyed home  the  ashes  of  Orestes.  Electra's  lamentation 
over  it  reveals  who  she  is,  and  Orestes  makes  himself 
known.  Then  the  men  go  inside  to  slay  Clytaemnestra, 
while  Electra  remains  watching  for  ^gisthus.  After 
the  slaughter  he  arrives  and  triumphantly  orders  the 
body  to  be  carried  forth,  but  when  he  uncovers  it  he 
finds  the  corpse  of  Clytsemnestra.  He  is  then  driven 
within  to  death. 

The  Choephoraz,  the  Electra  of  Sophocles,  and  the 
Electra  of  Euripides  supply  the  only  surviving  instance 
in  which  the  three  tragedians  handled  the  same  story  ;  at 
present  it  is  enough  to  note  the  differences  between  the 
method  of  Sophocles  and  that  of  the  Choephoroe.  For 
yEschylus  the  slaying  of  Clytsemnestra  is  a  question  of 
religion  and  ethics,  for  Sophocles  it  is  a  matter  of  psy- 
chology, the  emotional  history  of  Electra.  He  is  content 
to  take  the  religious  facts  for  granted,  and  then  to 
proceed  with  no  misgivings  to  a  purely  human  drama. 
The  play  begins  amid  the  bright,  cheerful  surround- 
ings of  dawn  and  ends  with  happiness.  When  Orestes 
comes  forth,  his  sword  wet  with  his  mother's  blood,  he 
is  entirely  satisfied  and  untouched  by  any  misgivings, 
simply  because  the  question  of  matricide  has  been  settled 
for  him  by  Heaven.  He  is  a  personified  theory  of 
Olympian  religion.  His  words  to  Electra  after  the  queen 
is  dead :  "In  the  house  all  is  well,  if  Apollo's  oracle 
spoke  well,"1  are  the  summary  of  Sophocles'  religious 
point  of  view.  Carefully  and  confidently  referring  the 
question  of  this  matricide  to  a  higher  judge  than  Man, 
he  proceeds  to  his  actual  business.  Equally  marked  is 

^v.  1424-5. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  143 

the  difference  between  the  closing  sentence  of  the 
Choephoroe,  "  Where  then  will  end  the  fatal  fury,  when 
pass  into  closing  calm?"1  and  that  of  the  later  work: 
"  O  house  of  Atreus,  through  how  many  sufferings  hast 
thou  come  forth  at  last  in  freedom,  crowned  with  good 
by  this  day's  enterprise ! "  For  Sophocles  the  deed  is 
done  and  behind  us ;  for  ^Eschylus  it  lives  to  beget  new 
sorrows. 

Electra  dominates  the  action,  scarcely  leaving  the 
scene  after  her  first  entry.  Though  not  a  great 
character-study,  she  impresses  us  by  the  pathos  of  her 
situation  and  by  the  splendid  expression  of  her  emotions  ; 
her  lament  over  the  funeral  urn  is  perfect  in  the  rhetoric 
of  sorrow.  Almost  motionless  throughout  the  long 
and  varied  action  ;  the  mark  for  successive  onslaughts 
of  insult,  misery,  surprise,  grief,  hatred,  and  joy,  she 
is  thrown  into  relief  by  all  who  approach  her,  especially 
Chrysothemis,  whose  princely  robes  add  emphasis  to 
the  heroic  meaning  of  the  sordid  dress  worn  by 
her  royal  sister.  She  is  a  simple  character  and  needs 
little  ornament ;  her  devotion,  patience,  and  courage 
are  plain  to  behold.  But  we  should  note  the  masterly, 
yet  unobtrusive  way  in  which  her  feelings  towards 
Clytsemnestra  are  portrayed.  Hating  her  steadily  as 
the  slayer  of  Agamemnon,  she  cannot  quite  forget  (as 
does  Euripides'  heroine)  that  Clyta^mnestra  is  her 
mother.  After  her  outburst  of  reproach  against  the 
queen  she  has  enough  flexibility  of  mind  to  own3 
that  she  is  in  a  way  ashamed  of  it — a  simple  touch 
which  shows  Sophocles  a  master,  not  a  slave,  of  his 
own  conceptions.  A  more  subtle  indication  of  her 
spirit  is  shown  in  Electra's  speech  to  Chrysothemis 
urging  her  to  aid  in  the  deed  of  vengeance.  All  she 
proposes  is  that  they  should  slay  .^Egisthus.  But  there 
is  an  undercurrent  of  emphasis  which  shows  *  that  she 
intends  the  death  of  Clytaemnestra  also. 

1  Choeph.  1075-6  (Verrall's  translation). 

2  vv.  1508  sqq.  (Jebb's  translation).  3  vv.  616-21. 

4  This  seems  a  fair  deduction,  not  only  from  the  whole  situation,  but 
from  the  pause  after  Aiyurdov  in  v.  957 ;  also  perhaps  from  the  emphatic 


U4  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

The  other  personages  are  mostly  well-drawn. 
Orestes  is  commonplace,  but  the  other  four  are  dis- 
tinctly imagined.  The  tiny  part  of  ^Egisthus  ad- 
mirably reveals  the  malicious  upstart  ;  Chrysothemis 
is  another  Ismene,  with  more  energy  and  lightness. 
The  Paedagogus  reminds  one  of  the  guard  in  the 
Antigone  by  his  quaint  witticisms — "  if  I  had  not  been 
watching  at  the  door  from  the  first,  your  plans  would 
have  entered  the  house  before  your  bodies  V  Clytsem- 
nestra,  too,  is  admirable.  More  closely  akin  to  an 
Euripidean  than  to  an  y£schylean  character,  she  de- 
fends herself  elaborately  and  gives  way  to  fits  of 
ill-temper  and  petty  rancour  ;  but  she  has  some 
maternal  feeling  left — witness  the  confusion  of  emotions 
with  which  she  greets  the  news  of  Orestes'  death. 

The  sorrows  and  character  of  Electra  form  one 
of  the  two  great  features  of  this  tragedy.  The  other 
is  the  stage-craft.  First  there  is  a  distinct  element 
of  intrigue,  that  is,  of  plot  as  contrived  not  by  the  poet 
but  by  the  characters.  Not  only  do  the  avengers  gain 
access  to  the  house  by  a  false  story  ;  this  much  is  to 
be  found  already  in  the  Choephorce.  There  are  two 
distinct  visitors  to  the  house  :  the  Psedagogus  with 
his  tale  of  the  fatal  race,  and  Orestes  bringing  the 
funeral  urn.  It  is  to  this  duplication — for  otherwise 
Clytaemnestra  would  have  been  present  when  the  urn 
was  brought — that  we  owe  the  splendid  scene  of  the 
Recognition,  with  its  introductory  lament  by  Electra. 
Again,  as  in  ^Eschylus  the  nurse  sent  by  Clytsemnestra 
is  induced  to  change  her  message  to  ^Egisthus  in  a 
way  vital  to  the  conspirators,  so  here  Chrysothemis 
is  caused  by  her  sister  to  invoke  the  aid  of  Agamemnon 
against  the  queen  instead  of  seeking  to  assuage  his 
wrath.  Further,  whereas  yEgisthus  might  have  entered 
the  house  and  been  slain  without  more  ado,  Electra, 
by  telling  him  that  the  messengers  have  brought  the 

«/UH  of  v.  974.     Cp.  also  582  sqg.  and  especially  the  comment  of  the  chorus 
in  v.  1080  (Sidvpav  Aovcr'  'Epivvv). 
lvv.  1331-3. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  145 

very  body  of  Orestes  home,  induces  the  king  to  summon 
them  forth  with  the  corpse  ;  thus  the  end  of  the  play 
is  rendered  vigorous  (indeed  melodramatic)  by  his 
triumphant  unveiling  of  the  body  which  proves  to  be 
that  of  the  queen. 

Besides  these  admirable  strokes  of  a  rather  sophisti- 
cated "  sense  of  the  theatre  "  there  are  powerful  effects 
which  arise  naturally  from  the  circumstances.  Clytaem- 
nestra  offers  a  prayer  to  the  very  god  who  has  sent 
the  avenger.  Electra's  wonderful  address  to  the  ashes 
of  her  brother  gains  greatly  by  the  fact  that  he  stands 
living  beside  her.  A  splendidly  dramatic  effect  is 
obtained  by  the  return  of  Chrysothemis — the  most 
"modern"  point  of  the  whole  work.  She  has  been 
sent  away  for  a  certain  purpose,  but  in  the  stress  of 
later  happenings  we  forget  her.  Suddenly  she  re- 
appears with  news — the  result  of  her  mission — news 
startling  in  itself,  but  ten  times  more  so  because  of 
the  events  which  (without  her  knowledge)  have  just 
occurred.  Again,  it  is  quite  natural  that  Electra  should 
come  forth  while  Clytaemnestra  is  being  slain,  since 
some  one  must  be  on  the  alert  for  ^Egisthus.  This 
gives  opportunity  for  the  terrible  little  passage  where 
the  queen's  agonized  appeals  inside  the  house  are 
answered  by  the  tense  answers  or  comments  of  this 
tragic  figure  rigid  before  the  gate. 

The  CEuiPUS  TvRANNUS1  (OtSurovs  Tvpavvos),  often 
called  (Edipus  Rex  or  (Edipus  the  king,  is  a  play  of  un- 
certain date,  but  it  seems  later  than  Electra  and  earlier 
than  Philoctztes. 

The  plot  is  rather  intricate  and  must  be  given  at 
greater  length.  The  scene  shows  the  palace  of  CEdipus 
at  Thebes.  The  people  are  smitten  by  a  pestilence  ; 
and  all  look  to  the  king,  who  has  already  sent  his  wife's 
brother,  Creon,  to  ask  advice  from  the  Delphic  oracle. 
Creon  enters,  bringing  tidings  that  Thebes  will  be  freed 
if  the  city  is  purged  of  those  who  killed  Laius,  the  former 

1  Arrangement :   protagonist,    CEdipus ;   deuteragonist,    Priest,   Joc- 
asta,  servant  of  Laius ;  tritagonist,  Creon,  Tiresias,  the  two  messengers. 
10 


146  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

king.  CEdipus  asks  for  particulars,  and  learns  that 
Laius  was  killed  by  some  robbers.  Only  one  man  es- 
caped. The  king  calls  upon  the  slayer  to  declare  him- 
self, promising  no  worse  treatment  than  exile  ;  he  asks 
also  any  man  who  knows  the  guilty  one  to  speak.  If 
no  one  confesses,  he  denounces  civil  and  religious  ex- 
communication against  the  unknown.  The  chorus- 
leader  suggests  that  the  prophet  Tiresias  should  be  con- 
sulted ;  CEdipus  replies  that  he  has  been  already 
summoned.  The  coryphaeus  remarks  casually  that  some 
say  Laius  was  slain  by  certain  wayfarers.  Tiresias  enters, 
but  shows  a  repugnance  even  to  discuss  the  problem,  till 
CEdipus  in  a  rage  accuses  Tiresias  of  complicity  in  the 
murder.  An  altercation  follows  in  which  the  prophet 
accuses  CEdipus  of  having  killed  Laius.  The  other, 
filled  with  wrath,  proclaims  that  Tiresias  and  Creon  are 
plotting  to  make  Creon  king  in  his  stead.  Tiresias 
threatens  the  king  with  mysterious  horrors  and  down- 
fall. CEdipus  bids  him  begone,  and  rates  him  for  a  fool. 
"  Foolish,  perhaps,  in  your  eyes,"  says  the  old  man,  "but 
thought  wise  by  the  parents  that  begat  thee."  CEdipus 
is  startled.  "  Parents  ?  Stay !  What  man  begat  me  ?  " 
The  answer  is  :  "  This  day  shall  show  thy  birth  and  thy 
destruction  ".  The  king  again  bids  him  go.  As  he 
turns  away,  Tiresias  utters  his  farewell  speech.  The 
murderer  of  Laius  is  here,  supposed  an  alien,  but  in 
reality  Theban-born.  Bereft  of  his  sight  and  his  riches  he 
shall  go  forth  into  a  strange  land,  and  shall  be  found 
brother  and  father  of  his  children,  son  and  husband  of 
his  wife,  murderer  and  supplanter  of  his  father.  Creon 
enters,  dismayed  by  the  charges  of  CEdipus,  when  the 
king  appears,  heaps  reproaches  upon  the  supposed  traitor, 
and  insists  that  Creon  shall  die.  The  noise  of  their  dis- 
pute brings  from  the  palace  Jocasta,  sister  of  Creon  and 
wife  of  CEdipus  ;  she  brings  about  a  half-reconciliation 
between  the  two  princes,  and  asks  the  cause  of  the 
quarrel.  CEdipus  tells  of  the  accusation  pointed  at 
himself  by  Tiresias.  Jocasta  seeks  to  console  him  by 
a  proof  that  soothsaying  is  not  trustworthy.  "  An  oracle 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  147 

once  came  to  Laius  that  he  should  be  slain  by  a  son  of 
his  and  mine.  None  the  less,  he  was  slain  by  foreign 
robbers  at  a  place  where  three  roads  meet ;  and  the  child, 
not  three  days  old,  was  cast  out  upon  a  mountain,  his 
ankles  yoked  together."  This  speech,  so  far  from  com- 
forting the  king,  fills  him  with  alarm.  The  phrase  "  a 
place  where  three  roads  meet "  has  struck  him.  He 
anxiously  asks  for  a  description  of  Laius  and  the  number 
of  his  followers.  The  replies  disturb  him  still  more,  and 
he  asks  that  the  single  survivor,  now  a  herdsman  far 
from  the  city,  should  be  sent  for.  Jocasta  asks  the 
reason.  He  tells  the  story  of  his  early  manhood  :  he  is 
the  son  of  Polybus,  King  of  Corinth,  but  one  day  a  man 
insulted  him  by  saying  he  was  no  son  of  Polybus.  The 
youth  asked  the  Delphic  oracle  of  his  birth,  but  the  god, 
instead  of  answering  directly,  announced  that  he  was 
fated  to  marry  his  mother  and  kill  his  father.  GEdipus 
cheated  the  oracle  by  never  seeing  his  parents  again. 
On  his  way  from  Delphi  he  met  a  body  of  men  such  as 
Jocasta  has  described,  and  after  a  quarrel  slew  them  all. 
It  seems  that  he  is  himself  the  slayer  of  Laius  and  is 
subject  to  the  curses  which  he  has  himself  uttered.  His 
only  hope  lies  in  the  survivor  who,  it  is  understood, 
always  spoke  of  robbers,  not  of  a  single  assailant.  If 
this  is  accurate,  CEdipus  is  not  meant  by  the  recent 
oracle.  A  messenger  from  Corinth  enters,  bringing 
news  that  the  people  of  that  city  intend  to  make  CEdipus 
their  king ;  Polybus  is  dead.  Jocasta  exclaims  that 
Polybus  was  the  man  whom  CEdipus  feared  he  must 
slay.  She  mocks  at  the  oracle  and  summons  CEdipus, 
who  shares  her  relief,  but  reminds  her  that  his  mother 
still  lives.  The  messenger  asks  what  woman  they  are  dis- 
cussing. "  I  can  free  you  from  that  fear,"  he  exclaims  ; 
"  CEdipus  is  not  the  son  of  Polybus  and  Merope."  Further 
questioning  from  CEdipus  brings  forth  the  explanation. 
The  present  messenger  gave  CEdipus,  when  a  babe,  to 
Polybus.  He  was  found  in  the  glens  of  Cithseron,  where 
the  man  was  tending  flocks,  his  ankles  fastened  by  an 
iron  thrust  through  them.  Who  did  this  the  Corinthian 


148  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

cannot  say,  but  the  man  who  gave  him  to  the  Corinthian 
should  know — another  herdsman  brought  him,  one  of 
the  household  of  Laius.  CEdipus  asks  if  this  man  can 
be  found.  The  chorus  answer  that  probably  he  is  the 
person  already  summoned,  and  that  perhaps  the  queen 
can  tell.  CEdipus  turns  to  Jocasta,  who  flings  him  a 
few  words  of  agony  and  sorrow  and  rushes  into  the 
house.  CEdipus  turns  away  in  contempt,  for  he  believes 
that  Jocasta's  distress  springs  from  a  fear  that  he  will  be 
found  of  ignoble  birth.  The  aged  servant  of  Laius  now 
approaches,  and  is  recognized  by  the  Corinthian  as  the 
man  who  gave  him  the  child.  A  conversation  of  in- 
tensest  thrill  follows  between  the  two  herdsmen,  in  which 
the  Corinthian  is  eager,  while  the  Theban  is  utterly  re- 
luctant, only  answering  under  the  direst  threats  from  the 
king.  At  length  it  becomes  plain  that  the  babe  CEdipus 
is  the  son  of  Laius  and  Jocasta.  The  king  with  a  cry 
of  horror  rushes  into  the  palace.  A  slave  enters  and 
tells  how  Jocasta  has  hanged  herself,  and  how  CEdipus 
has  destroyed  his  own  sight.  After  an  interval  CEdipus 
staggers  forth,  a  sight  of  ghastliness  and  woe.  Creon 
now  appears  as  ruler  of  the  city  and  bids  CEdipus 
be  hidden  in  the  house.  The  wretched  man  asks  that 
he  be  cast  forth  to  dwell  upon  Cithaeron  ;  Creon  replies 
that  the  oracle  must  first  be  consulted.  CEdipus  bids  a 
heart-broken  farewell  to  his  little  daughters,  and  Creon 
takes  them  all  into  the  palace. 

The  CEdipus  Tyrannus  has  been  universally  admired 
as  a  masterpiece,  ever  since  the  time  of  Aristotle,  who 
in  his  Poetic  takes  this  play  as  a  model  of  tragedy.  The 
lyrics  are  simple,  beautiful,  and  even  passionately 
vigorous  ;  the  dialogue  in  language  and  rhythm  is  be- 
yond praise  ;  and  the  tragic  irony,  for  which  this  poet  is 
famous,  is  here  at  its  height.  But  the  chief  splendour 
of  the  work  is  its  construction,  its  strictly  dramatic 
strength  and  sincerity.  The  events  grow  out  of  one 
another  with  the  ease  of  actual  life  yet  with  the  accuracy 
and  the  power  of  art.  We  should  note  the  two  great 
stages  :  first,  the  king  fears  that  he  has  slain  Laius  ; 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  149 

second,  that  he  has  slain  his  father  Laius.  This  dis- 
tinction, so  vital  to  the  growing  horror,  is  kept  admirably 
clear  and  is  especially  pointed  by  the  part  of  the  aged 
Theban.  When  he  is  summoned,  it  is  to  settle  whether 
Laius  was  slain  by  one  man  or  by  a  company ;  by  the 
time  he  arrives,  this  is  forgotten,  and  all  wait  to  know 
from  whom  he  received  the  outcast  infant.  Equally 
wonderful  is  the  skill  with  which  almost  every  stage  in 
the  discovery  is  made  to  rise  from  the  temperament  of 
CEdipus.  He  is  the  best-drawn  character  in  Sophocles. 
Not  specially  virtuous,  not  specially  wise — though  full 
of  love  and  pity  for  his  people  and  vigorous  in  his 
measures  for  their  safety,  he  is  too  imperious,  suspicious, 
and  choleric.  His  exaggerated  self-confidence,  danger- 
ous in  a  citizen,  is  almost  a  crime  in  a  prince.  The  only 
notable  virtue  in  his  character  is  the  splendid  moral 
courage  with  which  he  faces  facts,  nay,  more,  with  which 
he  insists  on  unearthing  facts  which  he  might  have  left 
untouched.  And  the  core  of  the  tragedy  is  that  this 
virtue  of  CEdipus,  his  insistence  on  knowing  the  truth, 
is  the  source  of  his  downfall.  Had  he  not  sent  for 
Tiresias,  Tiresias  would  not  have  come  forward.  Had 
he  not  urged  the  prophet  to  reply,  Tiresias  would  not 
have  uttered  his  accusations.  By  these  apparently  mad 
charges,  CEdipus  is  stung  into  accusing  Tiresias  of  plot- 
ting with  Creon.  This  in  turn  brings  Creon  to  the 
palace.  The  anger  with  which  he  reviles  Creon  causes 
a  dispute  which  draws  Jocasta  from  the  house.  Then, 
to  calm  CEdipus,  she  gives  him  the  dreadful  "  consola- 
tion " — that  oracles  have  no  weight — which  first  makes 
the  king  fear  he  may  have  done  the  deed  which  is 
plaguing  Thebes.  And  so  to  the  end.  One  exception 
to  this  sequence  should  be  noticed.  The  arrival  of  the 
Corinthian  messenger  at  this  moment  is  purely  acci- 
dental. Without  it,  the  witness  of  the  old  retainer 
would  have  fastened  upon  CEdipus  the  slaying  of  Laius 
(not  known  to  be  the  king's  father) ;  and  he  would  have 
gone  forth  from  the  city,  but  not  as  a  parricide  ;  more- 
over, the  relation  between  him  and  the  queen  would 


150  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

have  remained  unknown.  Judged  by  the  standard  of 
the  whole  play,  this  fact  constitutes  a  flaw  in  construction. 
Why  did  not  the  poet  contrive  that  the  news  of  Poly- 
bus'  death  should  arrive,  and  arrive  now,  as  the  direct 
result  of  something  said  or  done  by  CEdipus,  just  as  the 
arrival  of  the  old  Theban,  with  his  crushing  testimony, 
is  due  to  the  king's  own  summons  ?  No  doubt  this 
occurrence  is  meant  to  mirror  the  facts  of  life,  which 
include  accidents  as  well  as  events  plainly  traceable  to 
character. 

At  this  point  should  be  mentioned  other  possible 
faults,  whether  inherent  in  the  drama  or  antecedent  to  it. 
Some  of  the  preliminary  facts  are  to  a  high  degree  un- 
likely. These  points  are  three.  First,  QEdipus  and 
Jocasta,  though  each  separately  has  received  oracular 
warning  about  a  marriage,  make  no  kind  of  inquiry  at 
the  time  of  their  own  wedding.  Secondly,  CEdipus  all 
these  years  has  never  heard  or  inquired  into  the  circum- 
stances in  which  Laius  was  killed.  Third,  Jocasta  has 
never  yet  been  told  of  the  incident  at  Corinth  which 
sent  QEdipus  to  Delphi ;  indeed  she  has  apparently  not 
even  heard  that  he  is  the  son  of  the  king  and  queen  of 
Corinth.1  Within  the  play  itself  is  the  strange  feature 
that  when  Tiresias  accuses  CEdipus  of  slaying  Laius  and 
hints  darkly  at  greater  horrors — hints  which  in  spite  of 
their  obscurity  might  surely  (one  would  think)  have 
united  themselves  in  the  mind  of  CEdipus  with  the 
oracle  of  long  ago — CEdipus  is  merely  moved  to  fury, 
not  to  misgiving.2  Now  of  the  first  three  difficulties  it 
must  be  owned  that  despite  the  palliatives  suggested, 
they  are  irritating.  These  things  are  "impossible,"  or, 
if  not,  they  are  oddly  irrational,  which  is  the  same  thing 
so  far  as  the  enjoyment  of  dramatic  art  is  concerned. 
They  are,  however,  to  be  explained  thus.  The  unques- 
tioning marriage  of  CEdipus  and  Jocasta  is  a  datum  of 

1  vv.  774  sqq. 

2  It  is  true  that  when  the  prophet  mentions  the  parents  of  CEdipus 
quite  definitely  (v.  436)  the  king  is  startled.     But  this  is  one  point  only. 
All  the  other  remarks  of  Tiresias  are  ignored. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  151 

the  legend  with  which  the  poet  could  not  tamper.  All 
that  the  dramatist  could  do  he  did — he  placed  the  un- 
likely fact  "outside  the  plot"1  and  dwelt  on  it  as  little 
as  possible.  Indeed,  he  hints  at  some  sort  of  excuse— 
the  confusion  in  Thebes  owing  to  the  oppression  of 
the  Sphinx.2  Next,  the  postponement  of  explanations 
about  the  death  of  Laius  and  the  exile  of  CEdipus 
from  Corinth  is  a  direct  result  of  dramatic  treatment. 
Just  as  ^Eschylus,3  in  order  to  handle  dramatically  a 
religious  question,  the  bearings  of  which  fill  the  whole  of 
time,  insists  on  contracting  the  issue  to  a  single  great 
instance,  so  Sophocles  forces  into  the  compass  of  one 
day's  happenings  the  life  of  years.  In  actuality,  this 
tragedy  would  have  been  spread  over  a  great  lapse  of 
time.  The  climax  and  the  horror  would  have  been 
much  the  same  essentially,  but  the  poet  presents  the 
whole  in  a  closely-knit  nexus  of  occurrence,  so  as  to 
make  the  spectator  feel  the  full  impact  undissipated  by 
graduations. 

The  difficulty  concerning  Tiresias  is  of  another  sort. 
CEdipus'  apparent  madness  is  not  so  great  as  it  seems. 
Not  only  is  he  by  his  rank  and  superb  self-confidence 
shielded  from  misgivings,  not  only  is  he  already  sus- 
picious that  the  murderer  must  be  some  treacherous 
Theban,4  but  he  has  now  lost  his  temper,  and  has  just 
been  furious  enough  to  accuse  Tiresias  himself  of  com- 
plicity in  the  deed.  It  is  therefore  easy  for  him  to 
assume  that  the  prophet  in  his  turn  is  only  uttering 
his  accusations  as  a  wild  insult. 

It  might  also  be  asked,  why  is  not  the  scene  with 
Jocasta,  in  which  she  fortifies  the  king  against  sooth- 
sayers and  oracles,  not  placed  at  the  end  of  the  Tiresias- 
episode  ?  This  question  leads  one  to  suppose  that  there 
is  great  importance  in  the  quarrel  with  Creon  which  inter- 
venes between  the  departure  of  Tiresias  and  the  queen's 
appearance.  Its  importance  clearly  is,  partly  to  depict 
CEdipus  more  plainly,  by  contrast  with  his  equable 

1  See  Aristotle,  Poetic,  1 454/5. 

2  yv.  130-1,  3  See  pp.  127-8,  4  vv.  124-5, 


152  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

kinsman,  but  most  of  all  to  give  force  and  impressive- 
ness  to  the  end  of  the  play,  in  which  Creon  appears 
as  king.  After  the  appalling  climax  of  the  play,  and 
the  frightful  return  of  the  blind  CEdipus,  there  is  danger 
that  Creon's  entry  will  fall  flat.1  But  with  faultless 
skill  Sophocles  has  prepared  the  ground  so  well  that 
when  the  agony  is  at  its  worst  our  interest  is  not  indeed 
increased,  but  refreshed  and  relieved  by  the  appear- 
ance of  this  man  whom  we  have  forgotten,  but  whom 
we  recognize  in  a  flash  as  being  now  the  pivot  of 
events.  This  admirable  stroke  reminds  one  of  the 
return  of  Chrysothemis  in  the  Electra,  but  it  is  far 
more  powerful. 

Another  feat  of  dramatic  power  must  be  noted, 
marvellous  even  where  all  is  masterly  :  the  re-appearance 
of  QEdipus  after  the  climax.  Nothing  in  Greek  tragedy 
is  more  common  than  for  a  person  after  learning  fright- 
ful news  to  rush  within  the  doors  in  despair.  But  he 
does  not  return  ;  a  messenger  tells  the  news  of  his 
fate.  In  this  play  news  is  indeed  brought  of  the  bloody 
deeds  that  have  befallen.  Then  comes  a  sight  almost 
too  appalling  for  art :  the  doors  open  and  the  man  of 
doom  staggers  into  the  light  of  day  once  more.  Spiritu- 
ally he  is  dead,  but  he  may  not  destroy  himself  since 
he  cannot  go  down  to  Hades  where  his  father  and 
mother  dwell.  He  must  live,  surviving  himself,  as 
it  were  a  corpse  walking  the  upper  earth.  The  waters 
of  doom  have  closed  over  his  head,  but  he  re-appears. 

Jocasta  is  more  slightly  drawn  than  CEdipus,  yet 
what  we  have  suffices.  Two  features  are  stressed  by 
the  poet — her  tenderness  for  CEdipus  and  her  flippant 
contempt  in  regard  to  the  oracles.  This  last  is  clearly 
a  dramatic  lever  of  great  power  ;  through  it  the  king 
is  first  brought  to  suspect  that  he  is  the  guilty  man. 
It  has  a  strong  and  pathetic  excuse.  Because  of  the 
oracle,  she  was  robbed  of  her  child  and  yet  all  in  vain — 

1  The  entry  of  Fortinbras  at  the  end  of  Hamlet  is  closely  similar. 
Perhaps  it  is  fear  of  anti-climax  which  causes  producers  nowadays  to  omit 
this  finale. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  153 

the  infant  not  yet  three  days  old  was  cast  away,  but 
none  the  less  Laius  was  killed.  It  is  precisely  her 
rage  against  the  oracle  for  cheating  her  which  brings 
to  CEdipus  the  knowledge  that  it  has  been  fulfilled. 
Further  than  this  Sophocles  has  not  characterized  the 
queen  ;  he  places  an  ordinary  woman  in  a  situation 
of  extraordinary  horror  and  pathos,  leaving  us  to  feel 
her  emotions,  without  any  elaboration  of  his  own. 
To  read  the  conversation  between  CEdipus  and  the 
Corinthian,  with  the  short  colloquy  of  CEdipus  and 
Jocasta  which  follows,  is  to  experience  as  perhaps 
nowhere  else  can  be  experienced  that  "  purgation  of 
pity  and  terror  "  which  is  the  function  of  tragedy.  It 
all  centres  for  the  moment  in  Jocasta,  yet  she  says 
very  little.  We  are  required  to  imagine  it  for  ourselves 
—the  intertwined  amazement,  joy,  loathing,  despair, 
which  fill  the  woman's  heart  during  the  few  minutes 
for  which  she  listens  in  silence  to  the  king  and  the 
messenger.  To  have  lost  her  child  at  birth,  then 
after  mourning  his  death  for  many  years  at  length  to 
find  that  he  lives,  that  he  stands  before  her,  mature, 
strong,  and  kingly,  but  her  own  husband  ;  then  to 
realize  that  not  now  but  long  ago  did  she  recover 
him,  yet  did  not  know  him  but  loved  him  otherwise  — 
this  even  Sophocles  has  not  put  into  speech.  Only 
one  hint  of  it  comes  to  us  in  the  queen's  last  words  :  — 

toil,  lov,  8v(rn)V€  '  TOVTO  yap  cr'  evcu 
p.6vov  irpofTfinflv,  tiX\o  8'  ovnod  vartpov. 


First  she  screams  at  his  ignorance  and  would  tell  all 
in  one  word  "  Son  !  "  But  she  cannot  say  it,  nor  dare 
she  use  again  the  name  "husband".  All  dear  titles 
have  been  forfeited  by  being  all  merited  together  ;  and 
with  the  cry  "  Unhappy  one  !  "  she  goes  to  death. 

The  two  herdsmen  are  perfect  in  their  degree. 
Instead  of  mere  machines  for  giving  evidence  we 
have  a  pair  of  real  men,  subtly  differentiated  and  de- 
lightful. The  Corinthian,  as  befits  a  man  coming 
from  a  great  centre  of  civilization  to  the  quieter  town 


154  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

of  dull  Boeotians,  is  polite,  rhetorical,1  ready  of  tongue, 
and  conscious  of  his  address  ;  eager  and  inquisitive, 
he  increases  his  importance  by  telling  the  tale  piece- 
meal, and  will  even  tell  it  wrongly2  for  that  purpose. 
The  Theban  herdsman  is  an  excellent  foil  to  his  brisk 
acquaintance  ;  quiet  and  slow,  with  the  breeding  and 
dignity  often  found  in  the  lowly  members  of  a  back- 
ward community,  he  does  his  best  to  recall  the  memories 
on  which  a  king  and  a  nation  are  hanging  in  suspense, 
until  he  begins  to  see  whither  the  questions  tend  ; 
then,  only  the  fiercest  threats  can  drag  the  truth  from 
his  stubborn  loyalty.  Sophocles  loved  this  character  ; 
long  before  he  appears  we  have  a  charming  little  de- 
scription of  him  from  hints  of  Jocasta3  and  the  chorus  ;* 
the  poet  has  even  given  him  one6  of  those  magical  lines 
to  which  we  shall  come  again  later  :  — 


\tytis  aXydrj,  Kciinfp  tK  paKpov 

THE  WOMEN  OF  TRACHIS  6  (Trackinice, 
is,  perhaps,  the  next  play  in  chronological  order.  The 
scene  is  before  a  house  in  the  state  of  Trachis  not  far 
from  Eubcea.  Deianira,  the  wife  of  Heracles,  is  troubled 
by  his  absence  because  of  an  oracle  which  says  that  in 
this  last  enterprise  he  shall  either  die  or  win  untroubled 
happiness.  Hyllus,  her  son,  goes  off  to  help  him  in  his 
attack  on  the  city  of  Eurytus  in  Eubcea.  The  messenger 
Lichas  brings  news  of  Heracles'  triumph  ;  with  him  are 
certain  captive  girls,  one  of  whom,  lole,  daughter  of 
Eurytus,  is  beloved  by  Heracles.  Deianira  learns  this 
fact  after  a  pathetic  appeal  to  Lichas  ;  then  she  sends 
him  back  with  a  gift  to  Heracles  —  a  robe  which  she  has 
anointed  with  the  blood  of  the  Centaur  Nessus  as  a 
charm  to  win  back  her  husband's  love.  After  Lichas 
has  gone  she  finds  by  an  accident  that  the  robe  is 

1  Note  his  preciosity,  vv.  942,  959,  1028. 

s  He  first  (v.  1026)  says  that  he  found  the  infant  CEdipus  ;  only  later 
(1038)  does  he  admit  that  another  man  has  been  concerned. 

3  vv.  758-64.  4vv.  1117-8.  *v.  1141. 

8  Arrangement  :  protagonist,  Deianira,  Heracles;  deuteragonist, 
Hyllus,  Lichas  ;  tritagonist,  nurse,  messenger,  old  man. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  155 

poisoned.  Then  Hyllus  returns  with  news  that  his 
father  is  dying  in  torments,  and  reproaches  his  mother. 
She  goes  into  the  house  and  stabs  herself.  Hyllus 
learns  the  truth,  and  when  the  dying  hero  is  carried  in, 
cursing  his  false  wife,  he  explains  her  error.  Heracles 
gives  orders  that  his  body  is  to  be  burnt  on  Mount  CEta 
and  that  Hyllus  must  marry  lole. 

It  is  customary  to  regard  the  Trachinia  as  the 
weakest  extant  play  of  Sophocles.  The  picture  of 
Heracles'  physical  agony 'near  the  close  seems  weari- 
somely elaborate  ;  and  in  the  second  place  we  are  utterly 
dissatisfied  with  him.  He  does  not  seem  worthy  of  the 
trepidation,* awe,  and  grief  which  he  has  excited  through- 
out the  play.  All  that  follows  the  suicide  of  Deianira 
appears  empty  or  offensive.  This  objection  may  be 
put1  thus,  that  there  are  two  tragedies',  that  of  Deianira 
and  that  of  the  hero.  Now  though  it  is  quite  true  that 
one  can  point  to  a  thought  which  unifies  the  play — the 
passion  of  Heracles  for  lole,  or  more  fundamentally,  the 
destructive  power  of  love,  this  does  not  meet  the  difficulty, 
which  will  then  simply  be  restated  thus,  that  the  poet 
has  not  maintained  a  due  perspective ;  the  story  of 
Deianira's  emotions  and  of  her  plan  bulks  too  largely  and 
impedes  what  should  have  been  the  climax.  But  it  is 
a  fundamental  law  in  the  criticism  of  Greek  Tragedy, 
and  especially  in  the  study  of  Sophocles,  that  we  must 
ponder  it  until  we  find  some  central  thought  which 
accounts  for  the  whole  action  and  for  the  perspective  in 
which  the  details  are  placed.  Such  a  central  thought  is, 
after  all,  not  lacking  in  the  Trachiniee.  It  is  the  char- 
acter of  Deianira,  her  instincts,  and  her  actions.  This 
play  is  in  structure  very  similar  to  the  Ajax.  In  the 
earlier  work  Ajax'  death  occurs  far  from  the  end,  but 
the  latter  portion  is  no  anti-climax.  So  here  :  the  topic 
is  not  especially  the  death  of  Deianira  or  the  end  of 
Heracles  ;  it  is  the  heroine's  love  for  her  husband  and 
the  attempt  she  makes  to  win  him  back.  The  poet's 

1  See  Jebb's  Introduction,  pp.  xxxviii  sy. 


156  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

interest  in  her  does  not  vanish  at  the  moment  of  her  silent 
withdrawal.  Her  act,  her  love,  survive  her.  What  is 
the  result  of  her  pathetic  secret  wooing  of  Heracles? 
She  has  longed  for  two  things,  his  return  and  a  renewal 
of  his  affection.  To  both  these  purposes  is  granted  a 
dim  painful  phantom  of  success.  Instead  of  tarrying  in 
Eubcea  Heracles  hastens  home,  though  every  movement 
of  his  litter  is  torment ;  Deianira's  passion  has  brought 
him  back,  though  not  as  she  meant.  As  for  her  plan  to 
regain  his  love,  it  is  true  that  when  he  learns  her  inno- 
cence not  a  word  of  pity  or  affection  falls  from  him  ;  he 
never  mentions  her  again.  It  may  be  that  he  is  merely 
stupid  and  callous  ;  it  may  be  that  he  is  ashamed  to 
recant  his  bitter  words ;  it  may  be  that  he  is  at  once 
engrossed  in  the  sudden  light  which  is  thrown  upon  his 
own  fortunes.  However  this  may  be,  the  promise  of 
Nessus  on  which  she  relied  is  fulfilled  :  "  This  shall  be 
to  thee  a  charm  for  the  soul  of  Heracles,  so  that  he  shall 
never  look  upon  any  woman  to  love  her  more  than  thee ! " 
— the  hero's  passion  for  lole  is  quenched.  This  concep- 
tion gives  a  wonderful  beauty  to  what  is  otherwise  a 
mere  brutality  of  the  dying  man.  In  forcing  his  son  to 
marry  lole  he  outrages  our  feelings  as  well  as  the  heart 
of  Hyllus — unless  we  have  understood.  But  this  is  his 
reparation  to  Deianira.  The  charm  of  Nessus  has  been 
potent  indeed  ;  the  maiden  is  nothing  to  him  :  he  "  loves 
no  woman  more  "  than  Deianira.  But  this  act  is  more 
than  cold  reparation  ;  it  is  a  beautiful  stroke  of  silent 
eloquence.  Heracles  not  only  relinquishes  lole,  he 
gives  her  to  his  son,  to  one  many  years  his  junior. 
This  is  an  unconscious  reply  to  the  touching  complaint 2 
made  by  the  wronged  wife  : — 

The  flower  of  her  age  is  in  its  spring, 

But  mine  in  autumn.     And  the  eyes  of  men 

Still  pluck  the  blossom,  shunning  withered  charms. 

For  him  his  wife  was  the  true  mate ;    let  lole  wed  a 
1  vv,  575-7  (Jebb's  translation).  8vv.  547-9, 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  157 

man  of  her  own  years.1  Thus  the  hope  of  Deianira  is 
in  a  terrible  way  half-fulfilled.  Just  as  Heracles  was 
mistaken  in  his  reading  of  the  oracle  which  promised 
him  "  rest  "  at  the  end  of  his  toils,  so  was  she  mistaken 
in  the  meaning  she  put  upon  the  Centaur's  promise.  The 
oracles  of  heaven,  by  their  own  power  and  still  more  by 
the  terrible  misinterpretation  of  man,  help  to  mould  the 
play,  as  they  mould  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus.  Thus  the 
Trachinicz  becomes  a  real  unity.  Deianira's  fate  is  now 
no  over-developed  episode,  for  in  a  spiritual  sense  it 
fills  the  tragedy.  The  doom  of  Heracles  is  no  anti-climax 
or  tedious  addendum  ;  it  is  the  exposition  before  our 
eye  of  the  havoc  which  can  be  wrought  by  sincere  love 
misled.  A  great  structural  danger  lies  herein,  that  the 
picture  of  Heracles'  torment  may  eclipse  the  tragedy  of 
his  wife.  But  the  poet  has  surmounted  this  by  making  the 
agony-scene  not  too  long,  and  above  all  by  reminding  us 
of  Deianira  through  the  repeated  allusion  to  her  made 
by  Heracles  and  through  the  explanation  of  Hyllus. 

Certain  peculiarities  of  detail  in  the  plot  strongly  sup- 
port the  view  that  Deianira  is  the  subject  of  the  whole 
drama.  First  is  the  conduct  of  Lichas.  This  part  is 
carefully  constructed  so  as  to  lead  up  to  the  great  appeal 
in  which  the  heroine  describes  the  might  of  Love.  If 
Lichas  had  really  kept  his  secret  instead  of  tattling  to 
the  townsfolk,  Deianira  would  not  have  known  it  and  so 
appealed  to  Lichas.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  Lichas  had 
not  tried  to  deceive  his  mistress,  she  would  not  have 
needed  to  offer  any  appeal.  His  conduct  has  been  de- 
vised solely  to  portray  her  character  by  means  of  this 
marvellous  speech.  A  second  point  is  the  way  in  which 
Hyllus  learns  his  mother's  innocence.  After  his  speech 
of  denunciation  she  goes  without  a  word  into  the  house. 
The  Trachinian  maidens  know  the  truth  and  have  heard 
from  Deianira2  herself  that  she  will  not  survive  her 

1  These  remarks  are  not  vitiated  by  the  fact  (see  Jebb  on  v.   1224) 
that  legend  wedded  lole  to  Hyllus.     If  the  command  of  Heracles  is  as 
objectionable  as  Jebb  appears  to  think,  why  did  Sophocles  go  out  of  his  way 
to  cause  the  hero  himself,  instead  of  some  other,  to  enjoin  the  marriage  ? 

2  vv.  719  sq. 


158  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

husband,  but  they  say  nothing  to  Hyllus.  Yet  the  play- 
wright who  is  here  so  strangely  reticent  allows  the  prince 
to  learn  the  facts  in  a  few  minutes  "from  the  people 
in  the  house  "  as  he  casually  phrases  it.  The  reason  is 
that  if  Hyllus  were  informed  at  once  he  would  prevent 
his  mother's  suicide.  This  would  have  destroyed 
the  dramatic  treatment  without  altering  events.  For 
Deianira  is  not  concerned  in  being  proved  innocent ; 
she  wishes  to  die  now  that  Heracles  is  destroyed. 
Hyllus'  intervention  would  only  mean  procrastination  of 
death.1  In  the  interests  of  drama,  it  must  happen  now. 
Further  he  must  learn  the  truth  as  soon  as  she  is  dead, 
for  some  one  must  confront  Heracles  with  a  defence  of 
the  dead  woman,  if  her  fate  and  her  love  are,  as  we  said, 
dominant  throughout  the  play.  Here,  too,  there  is  a 
resemblance  between  the  Trachinia  and  the  Ajax ; 
Hyllus,  in  this  last  scene,  resembles  Teucer  championing 
the  fame  of  Ajax. 

The  character-drawing  is  here  as  admirable  as  else- 
where. Lichas,  well-meaning  but  foolish  and  shifty,  is 
contrasted  with  the  messenger  who  is  perfectly  honest 
though  spiteful.  Hyllus  is  a  character  of  a  type  which 
we  have  often  discussed  already — he  has  no  personality, 
and  we  are  interested  in  him  not  because  of  what  he  is 
but  because  of  what  happens  to  him.  The  women  of 
the  chorus  are  simply  a  band  of  sympathetic  friends. 
Heracles,  on  the  customary  reading  of  the  tragedy,  is  the 
most  callously  brutal  figure  in  literature.  One  need  not 
labour  the  proof;  his  treatment  of  Deianira,  of  lole,  of 
Hyllus,  of  Lichas,  of  every  one  whom  he  meets,2  is 
enough.  The  poet  has  taken  the  only  possible  course 
to  make  us  witness  the  hero's  pangs  at  the  close  with  a 
certain  satisfaction.  But  the  other  possible  theory  does 
away  with  this  sham  "tragedy".  Heracles  as  a  coarse 
stupid  "  man  of  action  "  who  is  yet  capable  of  reflection 

1  This  accounts  also  for  the  absurd  behaviour  of  the  nurse  (vv.  927  sg.} 
who  instead  of  interfering  hastens  away  to  Hyllus,  entirely  unlike  other 
such  women  in  tragedy. 

a  See  the  speech  of  Lichas  (w.  248-86). 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  159 

and  a  touch  of  "  the  melting  mood"  shown  by  his  giving 
lole  to  Hyllus  when  the  secret  of  his  wife's  heart  is  at 
last  irresistibly  pressed  upon  him,  is  dramatic  indeed. 

But  the  glory  of  this  work  is  Deianira.  A  comparison 
of  the  Trachinicz  with  the  Ajax  illustrates  the  develop- 
ment of  ideas  in  the  poet's  mind.  Tecmessa's  character 
and  position  have  been  analysed,  and  we  find,  instead  of 
one  woman,  two — lole  and  Deianira.  lole  is  mute  ;  it 
is  not  her  conduct,  but  her  involuntary  influence,  which 
contributes  to  the  tragedy.  In  Deianira,  however,  we 
meet  the  Trojan  princess  once  more,  older  and  with  more 
initiative — tenderer  she  could  not  be.  It  is  this  union  of 
gentleness  with  force  of  mind,  of  love  and  sad  knowledge 
of  the  world,  which  makes  her  character  so  appealing  and 
gracious.  A  smaller  poet  would  have  made  her  haughty 
or  abject,  revengeful  or  contemptible ;  Sophocles  has 
portrayed  a  noble  lady,  who  will  bend,  but  not  kneel. 
Her  interview  with  lole  and  the  later  conversations  in 
which  first  she  excuses  her  husband  and  then  on  reflec- 
tion finds  that  she  cannot  share  his  home  with  the  new- 
comer— these  scenes,  painted  with  quiet  mastery,  are 
the  greatest  work  of  Sophocles  in  the  portraiture  of 
women. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Trachinice  is  the 
work  of  Sophocles  ;  considerations  of  style,  hard  to  de- 
scribe but  overwhelming,  settle  the  case  beyond  dis- 
pute. None  the  less  we  cannot  ignore  the  influence  of 
another  school  of  drama — the  Euripidean.  The  features 
more  or  less  certainly  due  to  this  influence  are  :  (i)  The 
subject  itself.  Sophocles  has  studied  a  woman's  love 
and  its  possibilities  of  unintended  mischief  in  a  way 
which  recalls  many  plots1  of  Euripides,  (ii)  The  "pro- 
logue," especially  the  explanatory  speech  of  Deianira,  is 
not  in  the  usual  manner  of  the  playwright,  but  quite  in 
that  of  Euripides,  (iii)  The  last  lines,  with  their  re- 
proach against  the  hardness  of  the  gods  who  neglect 

1  Deianira's  plan,  moreover,  reads  like  a  sort  of  dilution  of  Medea's,  and 
her  last  moments  (w.  900-22)  recall  the  description  in  the  Alcestis  (vv.  1 58- 
84). 


160  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

their  children,  and  the  total  silence  about  the  deifica- 
tion of  Heracles,  which  was  the  most  familiar  fact  of 
this  story,  a  silence  emphatic  throughout,  are  in  spirit 
Euripidean.  (iv)  The  chorus  is  almost  negligible  as 
a  dramatic  factor,  and  one  of  its  songs  --  the  first 
stasimon — is  literally  "  commonplace  "  ;  it  would  fit 
any  kind  of  joyous  occasion,  (v)  The  turns  of  expres- 
sion occasionally  recall  those  of  the  younger  poet.  The 
colloquial  irolav  SoK-qo-w *  cannot  be  paralleled  in  tragedy 
except  in  his  work.  One  line'2  seems  borrowed  almost 
without  change.  Deianira's  homely,  almost  coarse, 
words,  "and  now  we  two  await  his  embrace  beneath 
one  rug,"  are  not  what  one  expects  from  the  stately 
Sophocles.  The  prosaic  ^a/D/Aa/cev?3  and  the  allusion4 
to  Heracles'  unheroic  side  (r^viK  r\v  w^w/ieVcs,  "  when  he 
was  deep  in  wine  ")  are  on  the  same  level.  But  most 
Euripidean  of  all  is  the  description 5  Deianira  gives  of 
her  dreadful  suitor.  There  is  nothing  unlike  Sophocles 
in  this  acceptance  of  the  legend  that  Deianira  was 
wooed  by  a  river-god.  But  the  studied  nonchalance  of 
the  first  line  "  my  suitor  was  a  river,  Achelous  that  is," 
and  the  absurdity  of  the  second,  in  which  the  divine 
wooer  is  represented  as  applying  (with  a  punctilio 
strange  to  river-gods  of  legend)  to  the  lady's  father  for 
her  hand,  and  "calling  "  (<£otTcDi>)  on  different  occasions 
as  a  different  animal — all  this  mixture  of  horror  and 
comedy  is  absolute  Euripides.  The  fact  appears  to  be 
that  Sophocles  deliberately  took  up  the  attitude  of 
Euripides,  for  two  reasons — firstly,  for  the  sheer  delight 
of  a  strange  and  difficult  feat  of  artistry  ;  secondly,  in 
order  to  show  how  Euripides,  even  from  his  own  stand- 
point, ought  to  have  written.6 


Jv.  427.     Cp.  Eur.  Helena,  567  :  iroias  Sdfiaprot; 

*  Jebb  points  out  that  Track.  416  and  Supplices  567  are  practically 
identical. 

3  v.  1140.  4  268.  8vv.  9-14. 

6  That  even  the  equable  Sophocles  did  on  occasion  embody  criticism 
of  other  playwrights  in  his  works  is  shown  by  such  passages  as  Electra 
1288  syf.,  CEd  Col.  1148-9. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  161 


PHILOCTETES  l  (^XoKTifn??)  was  pr  duced  in  the 
spring  of  409  B.C.,  when  the  po^t  was  eighty-seven  years 
old,  and  won  the  first  prize.  The  hero  Philoctetes  was 
one  of  the  chieftains  who  sailed  for  Troy.  When  the  fleet 
touched  at  Chryse,  he  was  stung  in  the  foot  by  a  snake. 
The  wound  was  incurable  and  its  noxious  odour,  to- 
gether with  the  cries  of  the  sufferer,  were  so  troublesome 
to  the  Greeks  that  they  deserted  him  when  asleep  upon 
the  island  of  Lemnos,  leaving  with  him  a  little  food  and 
clothing,  and  his  bow  and  arrows,  the  last  a  legacy  from 
Heracles.  In  the  tenth  year  of  the  war  the  Greeks 
learned  that  Troy  could  only  be  taken  by  help  of 
Philoctetes  and  the  weapons  of  Heracles.  Two  men 
were  sent  to  Lemnos  with  the  purpose  of  bringing  the 
maimed  warrior  to  Troy  —  Odysseus  because  of  his  craft, 
Neoptolemus  because  he  was  unknown  to  Philoctetes. 

The  scene  is  a  desolate  spot  on  the  island,  in  front 
of  the  cliff-face  in  which  is  the  cave  inhabited  by 
Philoctetes.  Neoptolemus  wins  the  confidence  of  the 
sufferer  while  Odysseus  keeps  in  the  background,  though 
by  a  subtle  device  of  a  false  message  he  aids  the  plot 
greatly.  But  when  the  fated  weapons  are  secured  and 
Philoctetes  (who  supposes  he  is  to  be  conveyed  back  to 
Greece)  is  ready  to  accompany  Neoptolemus,  the  latter 
tells  him  the  truth.  Philoctetes'  misery,  rage,  and  re- 
proaches induce  the  youth  to  restore  the  weapons  de- 
spite Odysseus'  opposition,  and  to  promise  Philoctetes 
a  passage  home.  But  at  the  last  moment  Heracles 
appears  in  glory  above  their  heads  and  commands 
Philoctetes  to  proceed  Troywards.  He  willingly  con- 
sents, and  bids  farewell  to  the  scene  of  his  long  sorrow. 

In  structure  this  play  is  perhaps  the  most  interesting 
extant  work  of  Sophocles.  As  elsewhere,  we  find  a 
great  simple  character  of  vast  will-power  exposed  to  a 
strong  temptation  —  Philoctetes  confronted  by  the  chance 
of  healing,  happiness,  and  glory,  if  only  he  will  meet  in 
friendship  men  whom  he  is  determined  to  hate.  But 

1  Arrangement  :   protagonist,    Philoctetes;   deuteragonist,    Neopto- 
lemus ;  tritagonist,  Odysseus,  merchant,  Heracles. 
II 


162  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

for  once  there  is  a  secondary  interest  which  is  not  purely 
secondary.  Many  will  even  find  the  development  of 
Neoptolemus  more  impressive  than  the  situation  of 
Philoctetes.  While  the  latter  shows  the  heroic  character 
as  it  appears  after  the  experience  of  life,  strong,  re- 
flective, sad,  a  little  fierce  if  not  soured,  the  other  is  the 
hero  before  such  experience,  eager  and  noble  but  too 
responsive  to  suggestion.  Neoptolemus  has  just  begun 
life,  and  his  first  task  is  to  betray — for  the  public  good, 
no  doubt,  but  still  to  betray — a  noble  stranger  who 
merits  not  only  respect  but  instant  pity  and  tendance. 
"  Oh  !  that  never  had  I  left  Scyros !  "  he  exclaims.  Life 
after  all  is  not  a  blaze  of  glorious  war  as  his  father 
Achilles  found  it,  but  a  sordid  affair  of  necessary  com- 
promises. One  of  the  most  charming  things  in  the 
drama  is  the  clearness  with  which  Philoctetes,  in  the 
midst  of  his  rage,  sees  the  tragedy  of  his  youthful  captor.1 
Confronted  by  the  kindness  of  the  youth,  he  reveals 
himself  not  as  a  mere  savage,  living  only  on  thoughts  of 
revenge  ;  he  becomes  more  flexible,  open-hearted,  almost 
sociable.  So  revealed,  he  is  the  direct  cause  of  the 
change  in  Neoptolemus'  purpose. 

Beside  these  stands  Odysseus,  only  less  striking  and 
equally  indispensable.  For  a  chief  note  of  this  drama 
is  the  skill  with  which  the  poet  avails  himself  of  the  three 
actors,  whose  possibilities  are  here  for  perhaps  the  first 
time  fully  employed.  It  is  easy,  but  mistaken,  to  label 
Odysseus  as  "  the  villain  ".  In  reality  he  is  the  State 
personified.  There  is  no  modern  reader  who  does  not 
hate  and  contemn  him,  but  it  remains  true  that  whereas 
Philoctetes  whom  we  pity  and  Neoptolemus  whom  we 
love  both  take  a  strictly  personal  view,  Odysseus  at  the 
risk  of  his  life  insists  on  pressing  the  claim  of  the  com- 
munity. It  is  necessary  to  Greece  that  Troy  should  fall. 
She  can  only  fall  through  the  arrows  of  Heracles.  The 
man  who  owns  them  will  assuredly  not  consent.  It 
follows  that  he  must  be  compelled  to  help,  by  force  or 

1  w.  1007-15. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  163 

guile.  A  conquering  nation  must  have  its  Philip  as  well 
as  its  Alexander ;  Odysseus  stands  for  facts  which 
twenty  years  of  the  Peloponnesian  war  had  driven  home 
into  Athenian  minds.  Neoptolemus  is  the  type  of  many 
a  young  warrior  who  has  learned  with  aching  disgust 
that  the  knightly  exploits  which  tales  of  Marathon  had 
fired  him  to  perform  must  be  thwarted  unceasingly  by 
the  politic  meanderings  of  Nicias,  by  considerations  of 
corn-supply,  or  the  "representations"  of  some  remote 
satrap. 

And  in  the  end  Odysseus  gets  his  way.  As  the  two 
friends  start  for  home,  leaving  the  Greeks  at  Troy  to 
defeat  and  the  oracles  of  Heaven  to  non-fulfilment,  a 
god  appears  to  command  from  the  sky  that  self-sacrifice 
shall  be  revoked  and  hate  forgotten.  What  are  we  to 
think  of  this  intervention  of  Heracles  ?  Is  he  not  an 
extreme  instance  of  the  deus  ex  machina  ?  Is  not  mere 
compulsion  employed  to  change  a  settled  resolve  ? 
This  is  the  most  striking  and  the  most  difficult  feature 
of  the  construction :  rather  it  seems  the  negation  of 
structure.  Why  is  it  employed?  Some1  have  been 
content  to  suggest  Euripidean  influence — of  course  no 
answer  at  all.  Some2  have  thought  that  Heracles  is 
personified  conscience,  rising  to  remind  Philoctetes  of 
his  duty  to  Greece ;  a  suggestion  ruled  out  by  the  fact 
that  his  duty  has  been  urged  clearly  by  Neoptolemus. 
A  more  attractive  idea3  is  that  the  genuine  peripeteia  of 
the  play  consists  in  Neoptolemus'  change  of  front ;  in 
this  way  an  inner  dramatic  unity  is  secured,  while  the 
external  change  induced  by  Heracles  is  a  mere  conces- 
sion to  the  data  of  legend.  This  in  its  turn  is  vitiated 
by  the  fact  that  for  the  dramatist  Philoctetes,  and  not 
Neoptolemus,  is  the  central  figure :  this  is  proved  by 
the  work  as  a  whole  and  by  the  title  which  the  poet 

1  E.g.  Mahaffy  (History  of  Gk.  Lit.,  Poets  >  pp.  309-12). 

2  Christ  (Geschichte  der  Gr.  Lit.  p.    210)  who  compares  Heracles 
here  to  the  8<up,6viov  a-tj^flov  of  Socrates. 

3  K.  O.  Muller  (Gr.  Lit.,  ii.  p.  124)  who  is  opposed  by  Bernhardy 
(II,  ii.  p.  370). 


164  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

himself  gave  it.  If  the  deus  ex  machina  is  not  to  be 
condemned  utterly,  it  follows  from  the  basic  law  of  Attic 
art  that  the  play  up  to  the  moment  of  Heracles'  appear- 
ance, however  complete  it  seemed  to  us  a  moment  ago, 
is  not  complete — that  some  coping-stone  is  still  needed. 
And  if  we  consider  the  action  up  to  that  point  we  can- 
not really  be  content.  To  disregard  the  oracles  which 
tradition  said  were  fulfilled,  the  action,  as  Sophocles 
depicts  it,  is  unsatisfactory.  Philoctetes  is  to  get  the 
revenge  which  seems  rightly  his,  and  we  approve  his 
young  companion  who  aids  him  at  such  cost.  But  by 
this  time  we  feel  a  little  dubious  about  the  sufferer. 
There  has  been  perhaps  too  much  detail  in  his  outcries 
and  his  account  of  his  sufferings.  Hatred  which  will 
refuse  both  health  and  fame,  without  any  loss  but  that 
of  aged  intentions,  has  begun  to  seem  a  moral  falsetto. 
But  who  can  say,  without  misgiving,  that  (on  pagan 
principles)  he  is  wrong  ?  One  person  only  in  Heaven 
and  earth — Heracles.  Every  ordinary  consideration 
of  public  and  personal  interest  has  been  put  before 
Philoctetes  in  vain.  But  there  is  another  thought  which 
neither  the  victim  himself  nor  Odysseus  nor  Neoptolemus 
has  strength  enough  to  suggest,  or  even  to  remember. 
One  character  alone  in  Greek  story  rises  above  the  con- 
ception of  personal  injury  or  personal  benefit  as  a  motive 
to  action  ;  Heracles  is  the  great  reminder,  not  so  much 
that  wrongs  to  oneself  should  be  forgiven,  as  that  life 
is  too  short  and  precious  to  be  wasted  on  revenge. 
Heracles  would  return  a  blow  with  vigour,  but  a  ven- 
detta, in  the  light  of  his  career,  seems  a  childish  folly. 
One  does  not  forget  that  some  pictures  of  his  character 
(that,  for  instance,  in  the  Trachinice)  belie  this  concep- 
tion ;  but  Sophocles  here  sees  fit  to  choose  a  different, 
and  the  more  usual,  view.  Suddenly  the  husk  of  selfish 
spite  falls  away  from  the  sufferer's  soul.  He  who  has 
just  promised1  to  use  the  weapons  of  Heracles  in  a 
private  quarrel  and  has  already  attempted2  so  to  use 

1  w.  1404  sgq. 

'When  he  threatens  to  shoot  Odysseus  (vv.  1299  sgq.). 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  165 

them,  at  last  remembers  that  they  are  the  rightful  in- 
strument of  well-doing,  and  that  it  was  for  such  a  reason l 
that  he  received  them  from  the  hero  at  his  passing  into 
glory.  Heracles  then  is  introduced  as  the  only  person 
who  can  press  upon  Philoctetes  an  argument  which  the 
cunning  of  Odysseus  and  the  candour  of  Neoptolemus 
have  alike  ignored.  That  he  appears  as  a  deus  ex 
machina  is  in  part  accident — he  is  not  selected  by  the 
poet  for  that  reason.  But  it  is  a  happy  accident,  for  the 
glory  which  envelops  him  is  the  visible  warrant  of  his 
inspiring  behests — anything  rather  than  the  sign  of 
overwhelming  might  summoned  to  break  a  reasonable 
human  resolve.  Thus  the  close  of  this  play  is  a  real 
ending,  not  a  breakdown  ;  it  is  the  pagan  analogue  of 
the  Quo  Vadis  legend. 

The  whole  play  is  an  example  of  intrigue.  The 
episode  of  the  pseudo-merchant 2  is  the  most  brilliant 
feat  of  Sophocles  in  this  department.  It  reveals  to 
Philoctetes  that  he  is  being  pursued  by  the  Greeks, 
without  arousing  his  suspicion  of  Neoptolemus,  and 
so  gives  occasion  for  the  transfer  of  the  bow  when 
the  sufferer's  fit  seizes  him  ;  it  conveys  a  strong  reminder 
of  urgency  to  Neoptolemus  ;  and  it  enables  Odysseus 
to  learn  how  his  plot  progresses.  Odysseus  merely 
by  telling  of  his  promise  to  capture  Philoctetes  is  in 
a  fair  way  to  fulfil  it,  as  it  throws  his  prey  into  the  arms 
of  Neoptolemus.  One  apparent  fault  of  construction 
is  of  a  type  which  we  have  already  noted.  It  is  vital 
that  Philoctetes,  before  his  first  consent  to  leave  the 
island,  should  know  his  friend's  real  purpose  of  taking 
him  to  Troy.  But  why  is  he  told  of  it  ?  The  merest 
beginner  in  duplicity  would  surely  postpone  such  a 
revelation  until  the  victim  was  at  sea.  But  Sophocles 
chooses  to  tighten  his  plot  up  in  order  to  give  the 
situation  in  one  picture. 

Dio  Chrysostom  in  one  of  his  rr  ost  valuable  essays  * 

V.  670  :   fi>(py(Tcov  yap  jcavroy  airr*  i*nf4{Uj9. 

2  See  Jebb's  2nd  edition  (p.  xxvii  with  footnote). 

3  Or.  52. 


166  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

sets  up  a  comparison  between  the  plays  on  Philoctetes 
composed  by  the  three  tragedians.  The  work  of 
Sophocles  is  the  latest,  and  two  peculiarities  help  us  to 
see  how  far  his  originality  went.  Firstly,  as  a  com- 
panion to  Odysseus  he  introduces,  not  Diomedes  as 
Euripides  had  done,  but  a  figure  new  to  the  Trojan 
war,  an  ingenuous  lad  whose  sympathy  brings  out  what 
gentleness  remains  in  the  sufferer's  heart.  Secondly, 
the  chorus  consists  of  Greek  sailors,  not  of  Lemnian 
natives  as  in  the  two  other  playwrights.  Sophocles 
will  have  no  Lemnian  visitors  because  for  him  it  is 
a  cardinal  fact  that  Philoctetes  all  these  years  has  been 
alone  save  for  a  chance  ship.  Thus  we  gain  for  a 
moment  a  glance  into  the  actual  thoughts  of  Sophocles  : 
he  has  made  up  his  mind  that  his  Philoctetes  must  be 
quite  solitary.  So  essential  is  this  that  he  falsifies 
known  facts.  Lemnos,  he  says  in  the  second  line  of 
his  play,  is  "  untrodden,  uninhabited  by  men,"  whereas, 
both  in  the  times  supposed  and  in  the  poet's  own  day, 
it  was  a  populous  place.  This,  then,  gives  an  in- 
valuable indication  of  the  extent  to  which  Sophocles 
felt  himself  free  to  re-model  his  subject-matter.  On 
the  play  itself  it  throws  light.  The  question  is  to  be 
studied  not  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  Greek  army, 
but  from  that  of  their  potential  helper,  soured  as  he 
is  by  a  more  extreme  suffering  than  ^Eschylus  and 
Euripides  had  imagined. 

The  picture  thus  conceived  is  painted  with  splendid 
power.  Romantic  desolation  makes  itself  felt  in  the 
opening  words  of  Odysseus,  and  this  sense  of  the 
frowning  grandeur  of  nature  to  which  Philoctetes  in 
his  despair  appeals  l  is  everywhere  associated  with  the 
pathos  of  lonely  suffering.  "  While  the  mountain 
nymph,  babbling  Echo,  appearing  afar,  makes  answer 
to  his  bitter  cries."2  All  that  he  says,  from  his  first 
exclamation  of  joy  at  hearing  again  the  Greek  language 
to  the  noble  speech  in  which  he  bids  farewell  to  the 

1  w.  936  sff.,  987  sf.,  etc. 

aw.  187-90  (Jebb's  reading  and  translation). 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  167 

bitter  home  which  use  has  made  something  like  a  friend, 
is  instinct  with  this  mingling  of  romance  and  pathos. 
Deserted  by  all  men  he  has  yet  found  companions 
whom  in  his  misery  he  addresses ;  his  hands,  his 
poisoned  foot,  his  eyes,  his  bow,  and  the  familiar  land- 
scape, vocal  with  the  "bass  roar  of  the  sea  upon  the 
headland  V  Closer  even  than  these  is  his  eternal 
unseen  companion,  Pain,  whom  he  found  at  his  side 
on  first  awakening  after  the  departure  of  the  Greek 
host :  "  When  my  scrutiny  had  traversed  all  the  land, 
no  inhabitant  could  I  find  therein  save  Sorrow  ;  and  that, 
my  son,  could  be  met  at  every  turn  ".2 

It  has  been  suspected  that  the  play  contains  allusions 
to  contemporary  politics,  that  the  poet  is  thinking  of 
Alcibiades'  return  from  exile.  In  410 — the  year  before 
this  play  was  produced — he  had  gained  credit  from  the 
naval  victory  of  Cyzicus.  Some,  moreover,  have  seen 
in  Odysseus  the  cynical  politician  of  the  day.  Other 
passages  read  like  criticism  of  the  public  "atmosphere" 
at  Athens  in  the  closing  years  of  the  great  war.  The 
dramatist  is  making  deliberate  comments  on  con- 
temporary Athenian  politics,  but  he  assuredly  did 
not  choose  the  whole  theme  of  Philoctetes  merely 
because  of  Alcibiades'  restoration.3 

The  QEoiPus  COLONEUS  *  (OiStTrov?  enl  KoXawaJ)  or 
CEdipus  at  Colonus  was  according  to  the  customary 
view  produced  in  401  B.C.,  three  years  after  the  poet's 
death,  by  his  namesake  and  grandson.  The  background 

av.  1455- 

2vv.  282-4.  Notice  also  the  phrase  £vv  $  (v.  268)  used  of  his 
malady. 

8  Jebb  (Introd.  pp.  xl,  xli,  2nd  ed.)  seems  unwilling  to  allow  any  direct 
allusions.  But  see  w.  385  sqq.,  456  sqq.,  and  particularly  1035  sqq.  ;  all 
three  passages  show  a  peculiar  emphasis  ;  w.  1047-51  are  quite  in  the  tone 
of  Thucydides'  "  Melian  dialogue". 

4  The  arrangement  of  the  parts  is  not  certain.  But  the  important  fact 
seems  clear  that  a  fourth  actor  was  here  used  not  tentatively  (as  in  other 
cases)  but  in  a  very  remarkable  degree.  Jebb  gives  :  protagonist,  CEdipus; 
deuteragonist,  Antigone  ;  tritagonist,  Ismene  and  Creon  ;  fourth  actor, 
"  Stranger,"  Theseus,  Polynices,  messenger.  Croiset :  protagonist, 
CEdipus  ;  deuteragonist,  Antigone ;  fourth  actor,  Theseus ;  all  the  other 
parts  to  the  tritagonist. 


168  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

represents  the  grove  of  the  Furies  at  Colonus,  a  village 
near  Athens.  CEdipus,  exiled  from  Thebes,  an  aged 
blind  wanderer,  enters  led  by  his  daughter  Antigone. 
They  obtain  the  favour  of  King  Theseus  and  the  citizens, 
CEdipus  promising  that  after  his  death  his  spirit  shall 
defend  Athens.  Ismene,  his  daughter,  brings  news  that 
an  oracle  has  said  that  in  the  struggle  between  Thebes 
and  the  Seven  led  by  Polynices,  son  of  CEdipus,  that 
side  shall  win  which  has  possession  of  CEdipus.  Both 
parties  are  now  eager  for  his  support,  but  he  curses  both 
his  sons.  Creon,  King  of  Thebes,  enters,  and  failing  to 
gain  aught  but  reproaches,  carries  off  the  two  girls,  and 
is  about  to  seize  the  father  also  when  he  is  checked  by 
the  arrival  of  Theseus,  who  rescues  the  maidens.  Poly- 
nices next  comes  to  beg  his  father's  aid,  but  is  sent  to  his 
doom  with  curses.  Then  a  peal  of  thunder  announces  to 
CEdipus  that  the  moment  of  his  passing  is  at  hand.  He 
bids  farewell  to  his  daughters,  and,  watched  only  by 
Theseus,  descends  to  the  underworld  ;  the  place  of  his 
burial  is  to  be  known  to  none  save  Theseus  and  his  suc- 
cessors. Ismene  and  Antigone  in  vain  beg  to  be  shown 
the  spot,  and  finally  Antigone  resolves  to  seek  Thebes 
that  she  may  reconcile  her  brothers. 

This  play  is  simple  in  structure,  superbly  rich  in 
execution.  CEdipus  dominates  all  the  scenes,  which 
reveal  with  piercing  intensity  his  physical  helplessness 
and  the  spiritual  might  which,  marked  at  the  opening,  is 
overwhelming  at  the  close.  The  poets  task  is  not 
merely  to  portray  the  last  hours  of  a  much-tried  man, 
but  the  novitiate  of  a  superhuman  Power.  CEdipus  at 
last  reaches  peace  and  a  welcome  from  the  infernal  gods 
— he  becomes  a  Sat/iwi/.  The  terrific  feature  is  that  even 
in  the  flesh  he  anticipates  his  daemonic  qualities.  In  the 
interview  between  him  and  Polynices,  the  implacable 
hatred,  the  strength,  the  prophetic  sight  of  the  father, 
and  the  hopeless  prayers,  the  wretchedness,  the  despair 
and  moral  collapse  of  the  doomed  son,  are  nothing  but 
the  presentation  in  human  life  of  the  actual  daemon's 
power  as  prophesied  for  future  generations.  Before  the 


169 

close  we  feel  that  the  aged  exile's  sufferings,  sombre 
wisdom,  and  simple  burning  emotions  have  already 
made  him  a  being  of  unearthly  powers,  sundered  from 
normal  humanity  ;  his  strange  passing  is  but  the  ratifi- 
cation of  a  spiritual  fact  already  accomplished.  But  this 
weird  climax  is  preceded  by  an  equally  wonderful  study 
of  the  human  CEdipus.  The  king  who  appears  in  the 
CEdipus  Tyrannus  can  here  still  be  recognized.  Pas- 
sionate anger  still  directs  much  of  his  conduct,  as  friend 
and  foe  alike  remind1  him.  But  even  his  faults  are 
mellowed  by  years  and  contemplation  ;  his  very  anger 
shows  some  gleam  of  a  profounder  patience-  Through- 
out, the  temper  of  CEdipus  is  like  that  of  the  heavens 
above  him — gloom  cleft  by  flashes  of  insight,  indignation, 
and  love.  Unlike  other  aged  sufferers,  he  does  not  dwell 
in  the  past ;  unlike  the  saint  and  martyr  whom  a  Christian 
dramatist  might  have  portrayed,  he  does  not  lean  upon 
a  future  of  glory  or  happiness.  Nor  again  has  he  sunk 
into  a  senile  acquiescence  in  the  present ;  he  is  far  from 
being  absorbed  by  the  loving  tendance  of  his  daughters. 
The  centre  of  his  life  has  shifted,  but  not  to  any  period 
of  time — rather  to  another  plane  of  being.  Still  in  the 
flesh,  his  human  emotions  as  essential  as  ever,  his  life 
is  growing  assimilated  to  the  non-human  existence  of 
the  whole  earth.  And  so  it  is  that  CEdipus  meets 
"death  "  with  cheerfulness  ;  he  is  departing  to  his  own 
place.  At  the  last  moment  the  blind  man  leads  those 
who  see  to  the  place  of  his  departure.  What  to  them 
is  dreadful  and  secret  is  to  him  the  centre  of  his  longing; 
the  terrific  figures  who  inhabit  his  new  home  are  welcome 
friends — at  the  beginning  of  the  play  he  addresses  the 
Furies  themselves  as  "sweet  daughters  of  primeval 
Night  ".2  The  whole  drama  at  the  end  is  full  of  this 
sense.  In  the  farewell  song  of  the  chorus  which  com- 
mends the  wanderer  to  the  powers  of  Earth,  there  is  an 
eerie  precision  and  picturesqueness  in  the  description  of 
the  lower  world  ;  the  "  infernal  moor  " 8  and  the  guardian 

1  Creon,  vv.  854  sq.  ;   Antigone,  v.  1 195.  3  v.  106. 

8  vv.  1 563  sq.     The  same  word  recurs  in  Antigone's  lament  (v.  1682)  : 
8t  n-XaKff 


170  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

hound  gleam  forth  for  an  instant  into  strange  famili- 
arity. 

The  other  characters  are  carved,  though  in  lower 
relief,  yet  with  richness  and  vigour.  Theseus  is  the 
ideal  Athenian  gentleman,1  suddenly  called  to  show 
pity  to  a  pair  of  helpless  wanderers,  then  unexpectedly 
involved  in  battle  with  a  neighbour  state,  and  finally 
confronted  with  the  most  awful  mysteries  of  divine 
government,  without  ever  losing  his  courage  or  his 
discretion.  Creon  and  Polynices,  such  is  the  immense 
understanding  of  the  aged  poet,  share  too  in  this  nobility 
of  mind.  They  can  face  facts  ;  and  whether  villains  or 
not,  they  are  men  of  breeding.  The  "stranger  "  who 
first  accosts  QEdipus  is  a  charming  embodiment  of  that 
local  patriotism  to  which  we  shall  return  in  a  moment. 
The  two  sisters  are  beautifully  distinguished  by  the 
divergent  experiences  of  years.  Antigone's  wandering 
and  hardship  have  made  her  the  more  intense  and 
passionate  ;  Ismene's  life  in  Thebes  have  given  her 
comprehension  of  more  immediate  issues.  It  is  through 
Antigone,  moreover,  who  declares  that  she  will  seek 
Thebes  and  attempt  to  save  her  brothers,  that  the  poet 
obtains  one  of  his  noblest  effects.  Overwhelming  as  is 
the  story  of  CEdipus,  his  end  does  not  close  all  ;  life 
goes  on  to  further  mysteries  of  pain  and  affection. 

On  the  purely  literary  side  the  CEdipus  Coloneus 
is  certainly  the  greatest  and  the  most  typical  work 
of  Sophocles.  The  most  celebrated  lyric  in  Greek  is 
the  splendid  ode  in  praise  of  Colonus — "  our  white 
Colonus  ;  where  the  nightingale,  a  constant  guest,  trills 
her  clear  note  in  the  covert  of  green  glades,  dwelling 
amid  the  wine-dark  ivy  and  the  god's  inviolate  bowers, 
rich  in  berries  and  fruit,  unvisited  by  sun,  unvexed  by 
wind  of  any  storm  ;  where  the  reveller  Dionysus  ever 
walks  the  ground,  companion  of  the  nymphs  that  nursed 
him,"  2 — and  of  the  whole  land  with  its  peculiar  glories, 

1  Note  specially  the  word  Tovnitnis  (v.  1127)  though  the  idea  is  of 
course  expressed  by  the  whole  play. 
aw.  670-80  (Jebb's  version). 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  171 

the  olive  of  peace  and  the  steed  of  war.  To  this  should 
be  added  that  address  of  QEdipus  to  Theseus  concerning 
the  fickleness  of  all  things  earthly  which  is  less  the 
speech  of  one  man  than  the  voice  of  Life  itself.1  Noblest 
of  all  is  the  account  of  CEdipus'  last  moments,  a  passage 
which  in  breathless  loveliness,  pathos,  and  religious  pro- 
fundity is  beyond  telling  flawless  and  without  peer.  It 
is  curious  that  Sophocles  in  this  work  which,  more  than 
any  other,  reveals  his  own  poetic  mastery  should  have 
definitely  drawn  attention  to  the  power  of  language. 
At  various  crises  in  the  play  he  speaks  of  the  "  little 
word"2  and  its  potency.  CEdipus  reflects  how  his  two 
sons  for  lack  of  a  "  little  word  "  in  his  defence  have 
suffered  him  to  be  thrust  forth  into  exile ;  the  nobility 
of  Theseus,  the  sudden  hostility  of  Thebes  in  days  to 
come,  the  appearance  of  Polynices,  are  all  matters  of 
the  "  little  word  "  which  means  so  much.  And  in  his 
marvellous  farewell  to  his  daughters,  CEdipus  speaks 
of  the  "  one  word  "  which  has  made  all  his  sorrows 
vanish — "  love  ". 

Every  master-work  of  literature  has  a  prophetic 
quality,  and  sending  its  roots  down  near  to  the  deepest 
wells  of  life  is  instinct  with  unconscious  kinships.  The 
CEdipus  Coloneus  is  rich  in  this  final  glory  of  art.  The 
whole  conception  of  the  sufferer,  aged  and  blind  but 
gifted  with  spiritual  sight,  recalls  the  blind  Milton's  sub- 
lime address  to  the  Light  which  "  shines  inward  "  ;  and 
the  thought  adds  charm  to  Sophocles'  description  of  the 
nightingale8  which 

Sings  darkling,  and  in  shadiest  covert  hid 
Tunes  her  nocturnal  note. 

Again,  just  as  the  whole  scheme  suggests  King  Lear, 
so  does  the  simple  vigour  of  Theseus'  words,4  when  he 

1  See  below,  p.  185. 

2  o-fjiiKpos  \6yos  four  times  (vv.  569,  620,   1116,  1152),  o-piKpbv  firos 
once  (v.   443),  and   Iv  povov  tiros  once  (v.    1615  sqq.).      Dr.   Mackail 
(Lectures  on  Greek  Poetry,  p.  150)  has  indicated  this  point.     See  also 
Electra,  415. 

*  w.  670  sqq.  :  The  parallel  I  owe  to  Jebb's  note. 
4  w.  1 503  sq. 


172  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

enters  at  the  terrific  close  amid  the  bellowing  of  the  un- 
natural tempest  :  — 

irdvra  yap  0tov 
roiavra  xfipd^ovros  (iKiicrai  rrdpa, 

recall  the  "  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm  'V  So  too  the 
divine  summons  2  which  comes  "  many  times,  and  mani- 
fold "  to  CEdipus  brings  to  mind  the  call  "  Samuel  ! 
Samuel  !  "  The  mystery  of  CEdipus'  tomb  suggests  the 
passing  of  another  august  soul  :  "  No  man  knoweth  of 
his  sepulchre  unto  this  day,"8  and  of  Joseph,  named 
among  the  faithful,  who  "  when  he  died,  made  mention 
of  the  departing  of  the  children  of  Israel  ;  and  gave 
commandment  concerning  his  bones  ".4 

This  play  is  deeply  religious  in  the  very  details  of 
its  theme  as  well  as  in  its  tone.  Besides  the  usual 
orthodox  background  there  is  the  lovely  presentation  of 
a  minor  local  worship  —  the  cult  of  the  Eumenides 
at  Colonus,  Sophocles'  native  village.  The  aged  poet 
in  his  last  years  seems  to  have  returned  with  special 
affection  to  the  simple  observances  which  he  had  learnt 
as  a  boy,  and  which  evoke  one  of  his  most  characteristic 
phrases  :  —  6 

roiavrd  <roi  TOUT'  (<rrivt  &  £<V,  ov  \6yots 
',  dXAct  TQ  £vvovcrla  ir\iov, 


the  piercing  simplicity  of  which,  as  well  as  the  theme, 
suggests  Wordsworth.  The  lustral  bowls,  he  is  careful 
to  tell  us,  are  "the  work  of  a  skilled  craftsman"  ;6  he  is 
almost  on  the  point  of  telling  us  his  name  —  one  can 
imagine  the  boy  of  eighty  years  ago  gazing  on  these  cups, 
and  his  first  sense  ot  beauty  in  workmanship.  Those 
who  would  offer  sacrifice  will  find  dwelling  on  the  spot 
a  sacristan  to  instruct  and  aid  them.7  Everything  on  this 
ground  is  both  familiar  and  hallowed  ;  the  mysterious 
"  brazen  threshold,"  the  statues  of  local  deities  and 

1  King  Lear,  III,  iv.  avv.  1627  sq.     Cp.  I  Sam.  iii.  10. 

8  Deut.  xxxiv.  6.  4  Heb  xi.  22. 

Bvv.  6  z  sq.:   "Such  .  .  .  are  these  haunts,  not  honoured  in  story, 
but  rather  in  the  life  that  loves  them  "  (Jebb). 
6  v.  472.  7  v.  506. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  173 

heroes,  the  hollow  pear-tree,  and  the  other  local  sanctities 
are  carefully  particularized,  so  that  the  calm  beauty  of 
the  country-side  and  the  terrors  of  religion  are  strangely 
and  beautifully  interwoven.  As  for  religion  in  the 
broader,  profounder  sense,  we  have  as  elsewhere  a 
reference  of  human  suffering  merely  to  an  inscrutable, 
divine  purpose.1  But  the  dramatist  indicates  carefully 
the  contribution  of  human  nature  to  the  fulfilment  of  the 
oracles  ;  Polynices2  becomes  subject  to  his  father's  curse 
because  his  own  sense  of  honour  forbids  him  to  relinquish 
his  foredoomed  enterprise.  CEdipus  himself  has  at- 
tained to  a  wiser  conception  of  sin8  than  that  which 
rules  him  at  the  close  of  the  Tyrannus.  He  has  acted 
wrongly,  therefore  his  suffering  is  just ;  but  he  is  morally 
innocent,  and  his  past  actions  afflict  him  as  sorrows,  not 
as  crimes.4 

The  fragments  of  the  lost  plays  are  on  the  whole 
disappointing  ;  a  large  proportion  are  single  rare  words 
quoted  by  ancient  lexicographers,  and  most  of  the  rest  are 
short  sentences  or  phrases.  There  remain  the  few  longer 
fragments,  to  which  in  recent  years  important  additions 
have  been  made. 

It  seems  that  the  Triptolemus  was  his  first  play, 
produced  in  468  B.C.  when  the  poet  was  twenty-eight. 
It  would  then  be  one  of  the  works  with  which  he  won 
his  victory 8  over  ^Eschylus,  and  it  bore  marks  of  the 
older  writer's  influence.  The  theme  is  the  mission  of 
Triptolemus,  who  traversed  the  earth  distributing  to 
men  corn,  the  gift  of  Demeter,  and  founded  the  mysteries 
at  Eleusis.  This  topic  gave  room  for  a  long  geographi- 
cal passage  which  recalls  those  of  the  Prometheus.  Other 
early  dramas  were  the  Thamyras  in  which  the  dramatist 
himself  took  the  name-part  and  played  the  cithara,  and 

Jvv.  964^.  3vv.  1422-5. 

8  See  Jebb,  Introduction,  pp.  xxi  sq, 

*  See  his  splendid  exculpatory  speeches  to  the  chorus  (w.    258-91) 
and  to  Creon  (vv.  960-1013). 

*  See  pp.  10,  12  sg. 


174  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

the  Nausicaa  or  Women  Washing  wherein  Sophocles 
acted  the  part  of  that  princess  and  gained  applause  by 
his  skill  in  a  game  of  ball.  The  satyric  drama  Amphi- 
araus  contained  a  curious  scene  wherein  an  illiterate 
man  conveyed  some  name  or  other  word  to  his  hearers 
by  a  dance  in  which  his  contortions  represented  succes- 
sive letters.  Another  satyric  play  The  Mustering  of 
the  Greeks  ('A^atwi/  SvXXoyos)  or  the  Dinner-Party 
(2vi>8ei7n>oi)  earned  the  reprobation  of  Cicero l  apparently 
for  its  coarseness,  which  can  still  be  noted  in  the  frag- 
ments. In  The  Lovers  of  Achilles  ('A^tXXew?  cpcurrat) 
there  was  a  passage  describing  the  perplexity  of  passion, 
which  in  its  mannered  felicity  recalls  Swinburne  or  the 
Sonnets  of  Shakespeare  : — 

Love  is  a  sweet  perplexity  of  soul, 
Most  like  the  sport  of  younglings,  when  the  sky 
In  winter-clearness  scatters  frost  abroad : 
They  seize  a  glittering  icicle,  filled  a  while 
With  joy  and  wonder  ;  but  ere  long  the  toy 
Melts,  and  they  know  not  how  to  grasp  it  still, 
Tho'  loth  to  cast  it  from  them.     So  with  lovers  : 
Their  yearning  passion  holds  them  hour  by  hour 
Poised  betwixt  boldness  and  reluctant  awe. 

The  Laocoon,  which  dealt  with  a  famous  episode  in  the 
capture  of  Troy,  supplies  a  fragment  describing  /Eneas' 
escape  from  the  city  with  his  father  upon  his  shoulders  ; 
one  or  two  other  passages2  besides  this  recall  Vergil's 
treatment  Another  tragedy  from  the  same  cycle  of 
stories,  the  Polyxena,  is  praised  by  "  Longinus"3  in  the 
same  terms  of  eulogy  as  the  culmination  of  the  CEdipus 
Coloneus  itself.  The  Tereus*  to  judge  from  the  number 
of  fragments,  was  very  popular ;  it  dealt  with  the  fright- 
ful fable  of  the  Thracian  King  Tereus,  his  wife  Procne, 
and  her  sister  Philomela,  all  of  whom  were  at  last 
changed  into  birds.  Aristophanes6  has  an  obscure 

1  Ad  Quintum  Fratrem,  II,  xv.  3. 

2  Fr.  344  :   irovov  (LtraXXa^dfvros  01  irovoi  yXvKetr,  and  fr.  345  :  poxdov 
yap  ovSels  TOV  jrapeXdovros  Xoyoy  ;  recall  sEneid,  I,  203  :  forsan  et  haec  olim 
meminisse  iuuabit. 

3  De  Subl.  XV,  7  •  axp<os  rrt^avratrrai. 

*  For  the  Recognition-scene  of  this  play,  cp.  Aristotle,  Poetic,  1454^. 
6  Birds,  w.  loo  sqq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  175 

series  of  jests  about  this  play  and  the  beak-mask  with 
which  Sophocles  "outraged"  the  Thracian  monarch. 
A  solitary  relic  of  the  Orithyia  tells  how  the  maiden  was 
carried  off  by  the  wind-god  Boreas 

Unto  Earth's  verge,  beyond  the  farthest  sea, 
Vistas  of  Heaven,  and  well-springs  of  the  dark, 
To  the  Sun's  ancient  garden. 

In  1907  there  came  to  light  at  Oxyrhynchus  in 
Egypt  considerable  fragments1  of  two  Sophoclean 
dramas. 

Most  of  these  once  formed  part  of  the  Ichneutce 
('I^vevrai)  or  Detectives.  Formerly  we  had  only  two 
brief  and  obscure  fragments,  and  one  word  quoted  by 
Athenaeus  ;  it  was  known  that  the  play  was  satyric. 
The  theme  was  quite  uncertain ;  and  conjecture 2  is  now 
shown  to  have  gone  quite  astray.  Sophocles,  we  find, 
has  dramatized  the  myth  so  admirably  treated  in  the 
Homeric  Hymn  to  Hermes.  A  considerable  portion  of 
the  work  can  now  be  read.  The  god  Apollo  announces 
that  his  cattle  have  been  stolen  and  that  he  cannot  trace 
them ;  he  offers  a  reward  to  anyone  who  catches  the 
thief.  Silenus  and  the  chorus  of  satyrs  undertake  the 
quest ;  they  are  the  "trackers"  from  whom  the  play  is 
named.  After  a  time  they  spy  the  footprints  of  oxen 
and  exclaim  that  "  some  god  is  leading  the  colony  ".  A 
noise 3  which  they  cannot  understand  is  heard  behind  the 
scenes.  The  numerous  tracks  now  give  them  trouble ; 
they  point  backwards  here  and  there — "  an  odd  confusion 
must  have  possessed  the  herdsman  !  "  Next  the  satyrs 
fall  on  their  faces,  to  the  amazement  of  Silenus  who 
likens  this  "  trick  of  hunting  on  your  stomach  "  to  the 
position  of  "a  hedgehog  in  a  bush".  They  bid  him 
listen  ;  he  importantly  replies  that  they  are  not  helping 
"  my  investigation,"  loses  his  temper,  and  roundly  reviles 

1  These  have  been  published  and  annotated  by  Dr.  A.  S.  Hunt  (who, 
with  Dr.  B.   P.  Grenfell,  discovered  these  and  so  many  other  precious 
remains)  in  Vol.  IX  of  the  Oxyrhynchus  Papyri. 

2  Welcker  thought  that  the  wanderings  of  Europa  formed  the  subject. 
8  The  word  pol/38os  is  inserted  as  a  stage-direction  (iraptiriypa^ff).     It 

no  doubt  means  that  the  babe  Hermes  is  playing  his  lyre  "  within  ". 


176  CREEK  TRAGEDY 

their  cowirdice.  They  recover  themselves  and  soon 
arrive  at  a  cave.  Silenus  kicks  at  the  door  until  the 
nymph  Cyllene  comes  forth.  She  protests  against  their 
boisterous  behaviour,  but  is  appeased  by  their  apologies. 
When  they  ask  the  meaning  of  the  strange  sound, 
Cyllene  reports  the  birth  of  the  god  Hermes  whom  she 
is  tending  within,  and  his  amazingly  rapid  growth.  The 
noise  is  produced  by  the  babe  from  "a  vessel  filled  with 
pleasure  made  from  a  dead  beast  ".  The  "  detectives" 
are  still  perplexed  ;  what  is  this  creature  ?  The  goddess 
describes  the  creature  in  riddling  language.  They  make 
laughably  divergent  guesses  :  a  cat,  a  panther,  a  lizard, 
a  crab,  a  big-horned  beetle  ;  and  at  last  they  are  told  that 
the  beast  is  a  tortoise.  She  describes  the  delight1  which 
the  child  draws  from  his  playing.  The  satyrs  inform 
Cyllene  that  her  nursling  is  the  thief;  she  indignantly 
denies  that  a  son  of  Zeus  can  have  so  acted,  and  takes 
the  accusation  as  a  joke.  They  vigorously  repeat  their 
charge,  and  begin  to  quarrel  with  Cyllene.  From  this 
point  onwards  practically  nothing  can  be  made  of  the 
papyrus-scraps,  except  that  Apollo  re-appears,  and 
seems  to  be  giving  the  "detectives"  their  reward. 

The  papyrus  which  contained  the  other  play,  the 
Eurypylus?  is  in  tiny  fragments,  but  some  of  these, 
combined  with  our  independent  knowledge  of  the  story, 
enable  us  to  give  an  outline  of  the  plot.  Astyoche, 
mother  of  Eurypylus,  was  induced  by  Priam  to  allow  her 
son  to  help  the  Trojans  against  the  Greeks.  He  met 
Neoptolemus,  son  oif  Achilles,  in  battle  and  was  slain. 
A  messenger  related  the  encounter  to  (it  seems)  his 
mother  Astyoche.  The  body  was  received  by  Priam 
with  lamentation  as  if  for  a  son  of  his  own.  This  frag- 
ment is  much  the  most  striking  of  the  collection. 


1  The  passage  is  amusing  :  xa'P<(  a^vtov,  "  he  is  in  a  rapture  of  joy,"  is 
an  excellent  phrase  for  this  earliest  of  maestri;  but,  as  Dr.  Hunt 
remarks,  his  audience  of  one  (Cyllene)  seems  not  to  share  his  ecstasy  : 
napa^fVKT^fjpiov  Kttvo)  \iovov. 

J  The  name  is  not  certain.  All  that  can  be  asserted  is  that  the  tragedy 
dealt  with  Eurypylus'  death,  in  defence  of  Troy,  at  the  hands  of  Neopto- 
lemus. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  177 

Sophocles'  position  in  literary  history  has  already 
been  indicated.1  We  shall  here  discuss  his  mind  and  his 
art  in  general  outline.  Of  his  political  opinions  little  is 
known.  Though  his  work  abounds  in  saws  of  state- 
craft, these  are  of  quite  general  application  ;2  and  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  declare  which  side,  if  any,  he 
took  in  the  political  crises  which  were  so  numerous  and 
so  grave  in  fifth-century  Athens  ;  there  is  perhaps  one 
hint3  that  he  did  not  approve  the  ascendancy  of  Pericles. 
As  for  religion,  he  seems  to  have  accepted  both  the 
orthodox  cults  of  his  country  and  the  current  beliefs  of 
the  ordinary  Athenian  with  little  reserve  or  none.  This 
brings  us  at  once  to  a  fact  which  must  not  be  ignored — 
the  feel  ing  among  readers  of  our  own  day,  that  Sophocles 
for  all  his  merits  is  a  little  too  complacent,  too  urbane, 
lacking  somehow  in  profundity  and  real  grip  upon  the 
soul.  The  answer  is  that  we  come  to  Sophocles  pre- 
occupied by  the  religious  questionings  which  fill  our  own 
time  and  which,  moreover,  interest  both  ^Eschylus  and 
Euripides  ;  but  there  is  no  reason  why  Sophocles  should 
share  our  disquiet  or  that  of  his  fellow-craftsmen.  That 
which  for  ./Eschylus  is  the  foreground  of  his  work,  forms 
for  Sophocles  only  the  background.  He  is  not  especially 
interested  in  religion  itself,  but  in  humanity.  For 
^Eschylus  religion  is  an  affair  of  the  intellect ;  for 
Euripides  it  is  an  affair  of  morals ;  for  Sophocles  it  be- 
longs to  the  sphere  of  emotion.  And  the  two  great 
instruments  with  which  he  constructs  his  plays  are 
human  emotions  and  human  will.  For  all  the  plays 
which  we  possess  the  same  genesis  exists:  the  chief 
character  experiences  some  mighty  appeal  to  the  emo- 
tions— the  feeling  of  self-respect  in  Ajax  and  GEdipus 
at  Athens,  of  family  love  in  Antigone  and  Electra,  of  re- 
vengefulness  in  Philoctetes,  of  wifely  dignity  and  affection 

1  See  pp.  15-17. 

2  See  e.g.  the  remarks  in  Creon's  opening  speech  (Ant.  w.  175-90). 

3  O.T.  587-8  : 

eyo)  pcv  ovv  OVT'  avrof  ipfipoiv  ftpvv 
rvpavvos  flvcu  /xaXXov  rj  rvpavva  8pav. 
12 


178  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

in  Deianira,  of  pity  in  QEdipus  at  Thebes,  and  then 
creates  drama  by  the  magnificent  pathetic  staunchness 
wherewith  the  will,  taking  its  direction  from  the  emotion 
so  aroused,  presses  on  ruthlessly  in  its  attempt  to  satisfy 
this  impulse.  Nothing  seems  so  dear  to  him  as  a  pur- 
pose which  flaunts  cold  reason,  the  purpose  of  any  others, 
and  indeed  every  other  emotion  save  that  which  has 
started  the  action  upon  its  course.  He  sets  before  us  a 
person  determined  on  some  striking  act,  and  subjects  him 
to  all  conceivable  assaults  of  reason  and  preachments 
on  expediency,  showing  him  unbroken  throughout.  The 
onslaughts  upon  Ajax,  Antigone,  Philoctetes,  QEdipus, 
are  not  mere  stage-rhetoric  ;  they  are  "  sound  common- 
sense,"  "appeals  to  one's  better  self";  and  no  logical 
denial  can  be  opposed  to  them.  Only  one  power  in  man 
is  able  to  withstand  them — the  will,  taking  its  stand  once 
for  all  upon  some  instinct  for  clear,  simple  action.  If 
we  never  listen  to  reason  we  are  lost  ;  but  if  we  always 
listen  we  are  lost  equally.  That  these  heroes  of  the 
will  so  often  come  to  misery  or  death  matters  little  ;  they 
have  saved  their  souls  alive  instead  of  sinking  themselves 
in  a  sordid  acceptance  of  a  second-hand  morality.  Over 
against  these  figures,  to  emphasize  their  defiant  grandeur, 
the  poet  loves  to  set  persons  admirable  indeed,  but  more 
commonplace,  who  emerge  in  the  dread  hour  when  the 
haughty  will  has  brought  ruin,  and  approve  themselves 
as  the  pivot  of  the  situation.  The  hero  is  great  and 
strikes  the  imagination,  but  it  is  on  the  shoulders  of  men 
like  Creon  in  the  CEdipus  Tyrannus,  Odysseus,  Hyllus, 
Theseus  in  the  CEdipus  Coloneus,  that  the  real  burden  of 
the  world's  work  may  be  safely  cast.  None  the  less  he 
loves  Antigone  better  than  he  loves  Ismene,  OEdipus 
rather  than  Theseus.  In  one  place  at  least,  in  his  dis- 
like for  the  "  reasonable  "  spirit  ot  compromise,  he  suffers 
himself  a  malicious  little  rediictio  ad  absurdum.  When 
Chrysothemis  finds  Electra  uttering  her  resentment  at 
the  palace  gate  she  says  : — * 

1  Electra,  w.  328  sqq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  179 

Sister  !    Again  ?    Why  standest  at  the  door 
Holding  this  language  ?     Will  no  span  of  years 
Teach  thee  at  length  to  grudge  thy  foolish  spleen 
Such  empty  comfort  ?     Yet  mine  own  heart  too 
Knows  how  it  sorrows  for  our  present  state.  .  . 

I  avow 

That  in  thy  spirit  dwelleth  righteousness 
Not  in  my  words.     Yet,  if  I  would  be ) 'res 
I  must  in  all  things  bend  to  those  in  power. 

As  for  the  plots  themselves,  their  main  feature  is 
that  deliberate  complexity  which  we  have  called  intrigue 
and  which  was  made  possible  by  the  poet's  use  of  a 
third  actor.  After  the  great  achievements  of  y£schylus 
it  became  necessary  to  add  some  fresh  kind  of  interest ; 
this  Euripides  found  in  a  readjustment  of  sympathies, 
Sophocles  in  an  increase  of  dramatic  thrill.  It  is  an 
exciting  moment  in  the  Trachinice  when,  just  as 
Deianira  is  about  to  re-enter  the  palace,  the  mes- 
senger mysteriously  draws  her  apart  and  reveals  the 
truth  about  the  captive  lole.  The  magnificent  death- 
scene  of  Ajax  is  the  outcome  of  the  cunning  wherewith 
he  has  thrown  his  friends  off  the  scent.  The  Electra 
is  full  of  this  method  ;  the  mission  of  Chrysothemis  is 
turned  into  a  weapon  against  the  murderess  who  sent 
her,  and  the  episode  of  Orestes'  funeral-urn  is  a  mag- 
nificent piece  of  dramatic  artistry.  In  the  CEdipus 
Tyrannus  the  king  brings  about  his  own  fatal  illumina- 
tion by  sending  for  the  herdsman.  The  Philoctetcs, 
above  all,  is  rilled  with  the  deliberate  plotting  of 
Odysseus.  The  marked  increase  in  complexity  which 
Sophocles'  work  thus  shows  as  compared  with  that 
of  ^schylus  is  undoubtedly  the  chief  (perhaps  the 
only)  reason  for  his  desertion  of  the  trilogy  form.1  Side 
by  side  with  this  attention  to  mechanism  is  that  curious 
indifference  to  the  fringes  of  the  plot  which  we  have 
had  occasion  to  notice  in  several  places. 

Another  characteristic  of  Sophocles  is  that  famous 
"  tragic  irony "  by  which  again  he  imparts  new  power 
to  old  themes.  It  turns  to  magnificent  profit  a  cir- 
cumstance which  might  seem  to  vitiate  dramatic  interest 

1  See  p.  16. 


180  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

—  the  fact  that  the  spectator  knows  the  myth  and 
therefore  cannot  be  taken  by  surprise.  Between  an 
audience  which  foresees  the  event,  and  the  stage- 
personages  who  cannot,  the  playwright  sets  up  a 
thrilling  interest  of  suspense.  He  causes  his  characters 
to  discuss  the  future  they  expect  in  language  which 
is  fearfully  and  exquisitely  suitable  to  the  future  which 
actually  awaits  them.  Ajax,  while  his  madness  still 
afflicts  him,  stands  amid  the  slaughtered  cattle  and 
proclaims  his  triumph  over  the  Greek  chieftains,  just 
before  he  awakes  to  the  truth  that  by  his  "  triumph  " 
he  has  ruined  himself.  More  elaborate  is  the  scene 
in  which  Deianira  explains  her  stratagem  of  the  robe 
which  is  to  bring  back  the  love  of  Heracles.  But  the 
CEdipus  Tyrannus  provides  by  far  the  finest  instance. 
As  the  king  in  scene  after  scene  accumulates  horror 
upon  his  own  unconscious  head,  the  spectator  receives, 
always  at  the  right  moment  and  in  full  measure,  the 
impact  of  increasing  disaster.  Yet  since  his  perception 
is  a  discovery  which  he  himself  has  made,  horror  is 
tempered  by  an  intellectual  glow,  a  spiritual  exaltation. 
In  the  art  of  iambic  verse  Sophocles  stands  beyond 
all  other  Greeks  unrivalled.  Beside  him  /Eschylus 
sounds  almost  clumsy,  Euripides  glib,  Aristophanes 
vulgar.  Only  Shakespeare  has  that  complete  mastery 
over  every  shade  of  emphasis,  every  possibility  of 
grandeur  and  simple  ease  alike.  The  iambic  line  in 
Sophocles'  hands  can  at  will  display  a  haunting  romantic 
loveliness,  the  profoundest  dignity,  the  sharpest  edges 
of  emotion,  or  the  quiet  prose  of  every  day.  Consider 
the  following  lines,1  which  begin  near  the  end  of  Electra's 
long  speech  of  complaint  to  the  chorus  :  — 

HA.   cyo)  8*  Oofcmjv  T£>V&(  Trpotrpitvovff'  dd 
<)T£tiv  T  rd\aiv' 


-yap  a«l  8pav  ri  ras  ov(ras  ri  pov 
KOI  ray  anovvas  iXiriSas  8u(p6optv. 
iv  ovv  Totovrois  ovrt  crvfypovdv,  0t'Xai, 
o&r'  evvtfidv  irdpttrriv  •  dXX*  iv 

iy  'or'  drayicr)  Kairaybrvtiv  KOKO. 


1  Electra,  303-16. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  181 

XO.   (ptp'  tint,  irarepov  Svros  klyicrdov  irtXas 

\eytis  ratf  f/piv,  fj  jSejSwros  e<  ftop.u>v  ; 
HA.   TI  Kapra  p.fj  doKft  p  av,  (iirtp  rfv  irtXas, 

ffvpalov  ol\vtiv  •  vvv  &'  dypolcri  rvyxavti. 
XO.   9  KOV  eyw  dapcrovaa  pa\\ov  ts  X<fyous 

rove  (rovs  tKoifjLrjv,  (lirtp  2>S«  ravr   <^«t  ; 
HA.  its  vvv  dirovTos  i<TT&p(i  ri  aroi  (pi\ov. 

Electra's  speech  is  solemn  poetry.  The  large  number 
of  spondees  1  (there  are  three  in  the  last  line),  the  slow 
elaboration  of  the  ideas  —  an  elaboration  admirably 
pointed  by  rot,  which  brings  the  rhythm  almost  to  a 
standstill  —  make  a  strong  contrast  with  the  following 
conversation.  There  the  relaxation  of  the  rhythm  is 
unmistakable  ;  <£e/>'  etTre  is  almost  casual  in  its  lightness, 
and  it  is  at  once  followed  by  a  tribrach.  The  rather 
odd  use  of  the  bare  dative  dypotcri  is  a  delightfully  neat 
tinge  of  colloquialism,  supported  by  Tuyx*vct-  Tne 
Pkiloctetes  will  repay  special  study  from  this  point  of 
view.  There  is  a  remarkable  tendency  to  divide2  lines 
between  speakers  in  order  to  express  excitement  ;  this 
device  is  elsewhere  very  uncommon.  From  this  play 
we  may  select  one  example  3  of  amazing  skill  in  rhythm. 
Philoctetes  is  explaining  how  he  contrives  to  crawl  to 
and  fro  in  quest  of  food  and  the  like  :  — 

yacrrpi  i*(v  ra  <rvp.<popa 


rag  vrrorrrepovs 

ir€\das  •  irpos  tie  rovd\  o  p.oi  /SaXoi 
vtvpo<rira8r]s  arpaKTOs,  avrbs  &v  raXas 

fl\VOfJ.TfV  8v(TTT)VOS  t£(\K.G)V   TToSa 

irpos  TOVT'  av. 

The  dull  repetition  of  TT/OOS  TOVTO  and  of  av  ;  the  ex- 
tremely slow  movement  of  the  penultimate  line  with 
its  three  spondees  and  the  word-ending  at  the  close 
of  the  second  foot  ;  above  all,  the  manner  in  which  the 
whole  dragging  sentence  leads  up  to  the  monosyllable 
av,  so  rare  at  the  end  of  a  sentence,  and  there  stops 
dead,  is  a  marvellous  suggestion  of  the  lame  man's 
painful  progress  and  of  the  way  in  which  at  the  end  of 

1  For  this  and  other  metrical  terms  which  follow  see  Chapter  VI. 
a  There  are  no  less  than  thirty  iambic  lines  thus  divided.    The  name 
for  such  division  is  di/ 
3  Phil.  vv.  287-92. 


182  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

his  endurance  he  falls  prone  and  spent  upon  the  object 
of  his  endeavour. 

Specially  striking  phrases  are  not  common.  So- 
phocles obtains  his  effect  not  by  brilliant  strokes  of 
diction,  but  by  the  cumulative  effect  of  a  sustained 
manner.  There  are  such  dexterities  of  course,  like 
Antigone's  TTO^O?  rot  /cat  Ka/ccuv  ap  f)v  ri?,1  and  the  cry 
of  Electra  to  her  brother's  ashes  : — 2 

rot-yap  crii  8e£ai  p.'  ts  TO  crov  r68f  crrryoj 

TT]V  fl,T]8(V   (IS  TO  (J.T)8(V. 

A  poet  who  can,  by  that  infinitesimal  change  from  rov 
prjoev  to  TO  /x^SeV,  indicate  the  very  soul  of  grief,  may 
claim  to  be  one  of  the  immortal  masters  of  language. 

Modern  readers  find  one  great  fault  in  this  poet — 
colourlessness,  coldness,  an  absence  of  hearty  verve  ;  he 
seems  a  little  too  polished  and  restrained.  The  truth  is 
that  in  Sophocles  the  Attic  spirit  finds  its  literary 
culmination.  ^Eschylus  lives  in  the  pre-Periclean 
world  ;  Euripides  is  too  restless  and  cosmopolitan  to 
reflect  the  spirit  of  one  nation  only  ;  Plato  and  Demos- 
thenes belong  to  the  age  of  disillusionment  which  came 
after  .^Egospotami  ;  and  Thucydides,  though  he  shows 
many  Attic  qualities,  is  without  limpidity.  Anyone, 
then,  who  would  understand  the  Athenian  genius  as 
embodied  in  letters  must  read  Sophocles.  He  will  find 
the  most  useful  commentary  in  the  Parthenon  and  its 
friezes,  and  in  the  remains  of  Greek  statuary.  One  of 
the  most  marvellous  and  precious  experiences  in  life  is 
to  gaze  upon  works  like  the  so-called  Fates  in  the 
British  Museum,  the  Venus  of  Melos,  or  the  Ludovisi 
Hera.  Many  a  casual  visitor  has  glanced  for  the  first 
time  at  these  works  and  known  strong  disappointment. 
A  mere  piece  of  marble  accurately  worked  into  a  female 
face  or  figure  ;  majestic  to  be  sure — but  is  this  all  ?  If 
he  will  look  again  he  at  last  perceives  that  the  stone 
has  put  on,  not  merely  humanity,  but  immortality.  An 

1  O.C.  1697,  translated  by  Jebb  :  "  Ah,  so  care  past  can  seem  lost 
joy!" 

9  Electra,  1165  sq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  188 

invisible  glow  radiates  from  it  like  the  odour  from  a 
flower.  We  have  never  found  any  name  for  it  but 
Beauty.  It  is  indeed  the  quintessence  of  loveliness, 
delicate  as  gossamer  yet  indestructible  as  granite.  So 
with  the  tragedies  of  Sophocles :  it  is  possible  to  read 
the  CEdipus  Tyrannus  in  certain  moods  and  find  it 
mere  frigid  elegance.  But,  as  with  the  beauties  of 
Nature,  so  with  the  glories  of  art,  it  is  the  second  glance, 
the  lingering  of  the  eye  beyond  the  careless  moment, 
that  surprises  something  of  the  ultimate  secret. 

For  reticence  is  one  of  the  notes  of  Athenian  art. 
No  writer  ever  effected  so  much  with  so  scanty  materials 
as  Sophocles  ;  he  carries  the  art  of  masterly  omission  to 
its  extreme.  Shakespeare  attempts  to  express  every- 
thing ;  the  mere  exuberance  of  his  phraseology  is  as 
wonderful  as  anything  else  in  his  work.  But  even  King 
Lear  or  Hamlet,  being  written  by  a  man,  share  the 
weakness  of  humanity  and  leave  the  foundation  of  life 
undisclosed.  Such  a  disability  may  daunt  the  scientist ; 
it  is  the  salvation  of  the  artist ;  for  the  effect  of  all  art 
rests  on  co-operation  between  the  maker  and  the  spectator 
of  the  work.  In  literature,  then,  the  author  knows  that 
he  must  omit,  and  the  reader  or  hearer  must  supply  for 
himself  the  contributions  of  his  own  heart  and  experience. 
How  much  then  is  he  to  omit  ?  On  the  varying  answers 
to  that  question  rest  the  different  forms  of  literature  and 
the  divergent  schools  of  each  form.  Sophocles  has  left 
more  to  his  hearer  than  any  other  writer  in  the  world. 
Another  note  of  Athenian  art  is  simplicity.  It  is  not 
crudeness,  nor  naivete",  nor  baldness  of  style.  In  a 
thousand  passages  of  Sophocles,  Thucydides,  and  Plato, 
the  line  between  savourless  banality  and  the  words  they 
have  written  is  fine  indeed,  but  that  little  means  a 
whole  world  of  art.  Many  a  fine  author — Marlowe  is  a 
conspicuous  example — writes  nobly  because  he  writes 
violently,  or  with  a  conscious  effort  to  soar.  But  let  him 
once  trip,  and  he  sprawls  in  bombast  or  nerveless 
garrulity.  Simplicity  without  baldness  is  the  most 
difficult  of  all  literary  excellences,  and  is  yet  achieved 


184  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

everywhere  by  Sophocles  except  when  he  rises  to  £ 
different  level,  of  which  we  shall  speak  later. 

Such  then  is  the  cause  of  Sophoclean  frigidity  and 
lack  of  colour.  He  is  led  to  write  so  by  his  Attic 
frugality  and  economy  of  effect,  by  his  knowledge  that 
his  audience  can  follow  him  into  his  rarefied  atmosphere, 
and  by  another  cause.  In  our  own  time  men  have 
looked  to  art  for  a  "  message "  from  more  exciting  or 
more  lovely  spheres.  We  talk  of  "  the  literature  of 
escape "  ;  for  us  art  must  be  an  expanding  influence. 
The  Athenian  sought  in  it  a  concentrating  influence. 
Each  citizen  who  witnessed  the  Antigone  was  a  member 
of  a  sovereign  assembly  ;  he  understood  foreign  policy 
at  first  hand  ;  war  or  peace  depended  upon  his  voice. 
Many  came  to  watch  the  Ajax  who  had  but  a  while  ago 
fought  at  Oenophyta  or  in  Egypt.  Such  men  did  not 
need  "local  colour  "  and  exciting  technicalities.  Their 
own  lives  were  full  of  great  events.  What  they  asked 
of  art  was  serenity,  profundity,  to  blend  their  own 
scattered  experiences  into  one  noble  picture  of  life  itself, 
life  made  beautiful  because  so  wonderfully  comprehended. 
This  was  the  function  of  Sophocles  and  his  brother- 
craftsmen. 

Beyond  the  normal  lucid  beauty  of  lyrics  and  dia- 
logue, and  beyond  the  frequent  outpourings  of  splendid 
eloquence  in  long  speeches,  there  is  a  still  higher  level 
of  poetry  which  should  be  noted.  Now  and  again  his 
pages  are  filled  with  an  unearthly  splendour.  Reference 
has  been  made  before  to  certain  isolated  lines  which 
combine  utter  simplicity  with  bewildering  charm.1  But 
here  and  there  the  poet  has  given  us  whole  speeches  in 
this  divine  manner.  They  are  always  a  comment  on 
the  matter  in  hand,  but  they  are  conceived  in  the  spirit 
of  one  who  "contemplates  all  time  and  all  existence," 

1  Dr.  J.  W.  Mackail  (Lectures  on  Greek  Poetry,  p.  150  sg.)  has  de- 
scribed these  lines  with  brilliant  aptness.  "  The  language  is  so  simple,  so 
apparently  unconscious  and  artless,  that  its  overwhelming  effect  makes 
one  gasp  :  it  is  like  hearing  human  language  uttered,  and  raised  to  a  new 
and  incredible  power,  by  the  lips  of  some  one  more  than  human," 


THE  WORKS  OF  SOPHOCLES  185 

who  stands  apart  from  man  and  sees  him  in  his  place 
amid  the  workings  of  the  universe.  One  of  these 
ethereal  utterances  is  the  speech *  of  CEdipus  to  Theseus 
who  has  expressed  his  doubt  whether  Thebes  will  ever 
desert  the  friendship  of  Athens  ;  it  begins  : — 

Fair  Aigeus'  son,  only  to  gods  in  heaven 

Comes  no  old  age  nor  death  of  anything ; 

All  else  is  turmoiled  by  our  master  Time. 

The  earth's  strength  fades  and  manhood's  glory  fades, 

Faith  dies,  and  unfaith  blossoms  like  a  flower. 

And  who  shall  find  in  the  open  streets  of  men 

Or  secret  places  of  his  own  heart's  love 

One  wind  blow  true  for  ever  ? 

More  personal,  but  instinct  with  the  same  glow  of 
imaginative  beauty  is  the  soliloquy2  of  Ajax  when  at 
the  point  of  death.  It  is  in  passages  like  these  that  one 
realizes  the  value  of  the  restraint  which  obtains  else- 
where ;  when  the  author  gives  his  voice  full  scope  the 
effect  is  heartshaking.  Ajax'  appeal  to  the  sun-god  to 
"  check  his  gold-embossed  rein"  fills  with  splendour  at 
a  word  the  heavens  which  were  lowering  with  horror. 
It  recalls  Marlowe's  lines  of  the  same  type  and  effect 
though  in  different  application,  which  suffuse  the  agony 
of  Faust  with  bitter  glory  : — 

Stand  still,  ycu  ever-moving  spheres  of  Heaven 
That  time  may  cease,  and  midnight  never  come  ! 

The  greatest  achievement  of  Sophocles  was,  however, 
reserved  till  the  close  of  his  life.  The  messenger's 
speech,3  narrating  the  last  moments  of  CEdipus,  is  the 
culmination  in  Greek  of  whatever  miracles  human 
language  can  compass  in  exciting  awe  and  delight. 
The  poet  has  bent  all  his  mastery  of  tense  idiom,  of 
varied  and  haunting  rhythm,  all  his  instinct  for  the 
pathos  of  life  and  the  mystery  of  fate,  to  produce  one 
mighty  uplifting  of  the  hearer  into  the  region  where 
emotion  and  intellect  are  no  longer  opposed  but  mingle 
into  something  for  which  we  have  no  name  but  "  Life  ". 

1  O.C.  607  sqq.      The  wonderful  version  of  these  first  few  lines  is  by 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray. 

a  Ajax,  81 5  sgy.  3  O.C.  1 586  sqq. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES 

OF  nearly   one   hundred   dramas    composed    by 
Euripides    nineteen1  have  survived     These 
are  now  discussed  in  the  approximate  chrono- 
logical  order ;    the     precise    date    of    production     is, 
however,  known  in  but  few  cases. 

The  ALCESTis2  (¥AXKr?crTis),  acted  in  438  B.C.,  when 
the  poet  was  already  forty-two  years  old,  is  the  earliest. 
It  formed  the  fourth  play  of  a  tetralogy  which  contained 
the  lost  works  Women  of  Crete,  Alcmaon  at  Psophis, 
and  Telephus.  Euripides  obtained  the  second  prize, 
being  vanquished  by  Sophocles — with  what  play  is  not 
known.  The  scene  is  laid  at  Pherae  and  presents  the 
palace  of  Admetus,  King  of  Thessaly.  The  god  Apollo 
relates  how  he  has  induced  the  Fates  to  allow  Admetus 
to  escape  death  on  his  destined  day,  if  he  can  find 
some  one  to  die  in  his  stead.  All  refused  save  his  wife, 
Alcestis,  whose  death  therefore  is  to  happen  this  very 
day.  Thanatos  (Death)  enters  and  Apollo  in  vain  asks 
him  to  spare  the  queen ;  a  quarrel  follows,  and  Apollo 
departs  with  threats.  The  chorus  of  Phera^an  elders  enter 
and  hear,  from  a  servant,  of  Alcestis'  courageous  leave- 
takings.  Next  the  queen  is  borne  forth  and  dies  amid 

1  This  figure  includes  the  Rhesus,  the  authenticity  of  which  is  not 
certain. 

a  It  is  almost  certain  that  only  two  actors  were  employed,  Alcestis 
being  mute  in  the  last  scene  (i.e.  the  character  was  apparently  borne 
by  a  supernumerary,  not  the  actor  who  had  delivered  her  earlier 
speeches),  and  the  few  lines  of  the  child  Eumelos  being  sung  by  a 
chorister.  Croiset  suggests :  protagonist,  Apollo,  Alcestis,  Heracles, 
Pheres  ;  deuteragonist,  Thanatos,  maidservant,  Admetus,  attendant. 

1 86 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  187 

the  lamentations  of  her  husband  and  little  son.  All 
save  the  chorus  retire  to  prepare  for  the  funeral,  when 
Heracles  enters.  Admetus  comes  forth  and  insists  on 
making  the  hero  his  guest,  pretending  that  it  is  a 
stranger  who  has  died.  Heracles  is  taken  to  the  guest- 
chamber  and  the  elders  reproach  Admetus  for  his 
unseasonable  hospitality.  The  funeral  procession  is 
moving  forward  when  Pheres,  father  of  Admetus,  enters 
to  pay  his  respects  to  the  dead.  His  son  with  cold 
fury  repels  him  :  why  did  he,  an  aged  man,  not  consent 
to  die,  and  so  save  Alcestis  ?  A  vigorous  and  coarse 
altercation  follows.  When  all  have  gone  the  butler 
enters,  complaining  of  Heracles'  drunken  feasting  ;  the 
latter  soon  follows,  and  is  quickly  sobered  by  learning 
the  truth.  He  proclaims  his  intention  of  rescuing 
Alcestis  from  Thanatos,  and  hurries  away.  Admetus 
returns  followed  by  the  chorus,  expressing  his  utter  grief 
and  desolation.  Heracles  arrives  with  a  veiled  woman, 
whom  he  says  he  has  won  as  a  prize  at  some  athletic 
contest ;  he  must  now  depart  to  fulfil  his  next  "  labour  " 
— the  capture  of  Diomedes'  man-eating  steeds — and 
requests  Admetus  to  take  care  of  the  woman  till  his 
return.  The  king  reluctantly  consents,  and  Heracles 
unveils  her,  whereupon  Admetus  recognizes  his  wife. 
She  does  not  speak,  being  (as  Heracles  explains)  for 
three  days  yet  subject  to  the  infernal  deities.1  The  play 
ends  with  the  joy  of  Admetus,  a  dry  remark  of  Heracles 
on  true  hospitality,  and  a  few  lines 2  from  the  chorus  ex- 
pressing wonder  at  the  mysterious  ways  of  Heaven. 

The  Greek  introductions  to  this  play  contain  interest- 
ing criticisms :  "  the  close  of  the  drama  is  somewhat 

1  The  true  explanation,  as  Dr.  Hayley  points  out,  is  that  the  two 
actors  are  already  engaged  (as  A.  and  H.)  so  that  the  queen  is  presented 
by  a  mute.  I  cannot,  however,  agree  that  this  is  "  a  clumsy  device  ". 
Admetus  deserved  some  modification  of  his  delight ;  we  may,  moreover, 
feel  that  Alcestis  would  not  wish  to  show  precipitation  in  greeting  the 
husband  who  had  interred  her  with  such  strange  promptitude. 

a  The  celebrated  "tag"  beginning  TroXXai  /iop$a!  rS>v  Saipovitov^viv. 
1 1 59-63),  which  is  found  also  at  the  close  of  Medea  (practically),  Helena, 
Andromache^  and  Baccha. 


188  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

comic";  "the  drama  is  more  or  less  satyric,  because  it 
ends  in  joy  and  pleasure".  These  remarks,  coupled 
with  the  fact  that  the  Alcestis  (as  the  last  play  of  the 
tetralogy)  occupied  the  place  of  the  customary  satyric 
drama,  have  caused  much  discussion.  It  is  enough  to 
say  here  :  first,  that  the  Alcestis  is  in  no  sense  a  satyric 
play ; *  second,  that  it  undoubtedly  presents  comic 
features ;  third,  that  none  the  less  the  work  belongs  to 
the  sphere  of  tragedy.  It  is  sometimes  difficult,  and 
often  undesirable,  to  label  dramatic  poems  too  definitely  ; 
but  we  must  certainly  avoid  the  impression  that  this 
play  is  a  comedy.  It  deals  poignantly  with  the  most 
solemn  interests  of  humanity  ;  the  comic  scenes  merely 
show,  what  is  almost  as  obvious  elsewhere,  that  Euripides 
imitates  actual  life  more  closely  than  his  two  great 
rivals.  Nothing  is  gained,  however,  by  ignoring  the 
comic  element.  The  altercation  between  Apollo  and 
Thanatos  contains  much  that  surprises  us — the  wit2  and 
the  eager,  wrangling,  bargaining  tone  of  the  dispute. 
Again  the  quarrel  between  Pheres  and  his  son,  admirable 
in  its  skilful  revelation  of  character,  jars  terribly  when 
enacted  over  the  body  of  Alcestis.  Heracles'  half-tipsy 
lecture  to  the  slave  shocks  us  in  a  demigod  about  to 
wrestle  with  Death  himself.  But  the  whole  situation  as 
between  Alcestis  and  Admetus,  Admetus  and  Heracles, 
is  handled  with  dignity  and  extraordinary  pathos.  The 
death  scene,  especially  Admetus'  despairing  address  to 
his  wife ;  the  even  finer  passage  when  the  king  returns 
but  shrinks  from  the  cold  aspect  of  his  widowed  house ; 
the  magnificent  and  lovely  odes,  above  all  the  song 
which  describes  the  wild  beasts  of  Othrys'  side  sporting 
to  the  music  of  Apollo — these  are  thoroughly  suited  to 
tragedy. 

The  plot  is  apparently3  quite  simple,  but  one  fact 

-   \ There  are  no  satyrs  and  no  indecency  of  language. 

a  E.g.  v.  58  :  irwv  tiTfas ;  oXX'  9  KOI  <ro<f>bs  \t\rj6as  u>v  ;  "What  !  you 
among  the  philosophers  1 " 

3  The  late  Dr.  A.  W.  Verrall's  brilliant  theory  of  this  play  it  will  be 
better  to  discuss  later  (see  pp.  190  sq.\ 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  189 

should  be  mentioned.  The  rescue  of  Alcestis  is  due 
directly  to  the  drunkenness  of  Heracles.  He  is  pre- 
vented from  learning  the  facts  in  an  ordinary  way  by 
Admetus ;  had  he  behaved  normally,  he  would  have 
left  Pherse  still  unenlightened,  since  Admetus  has  for- 
bidden l  his  slave  to  speak.  It  is  his  intoxication  alone 
which  goads  the  butler  to  explain. 

The  character-drawing  is  skilful,  often  subtle.     Her- 
acles, good-hearted    but  somewhat   dense,  sensual  and 
coarse-fibred,  is  half-way  between  the  demigod  of  the 
Heracles  Furens  and  the  boisterous  glutton  of  comedy. 
Capable  of  splendid  impulses,  he  is  yet  a  masterpiece 
of  breezy  tactlessness,  as  when  with  hideous  slyness  he 
suggests   to  Admetus  (in  the  presence  of  the  restored 
wife)  that  the  king  may  console  himself  by  a  new  mar- 
riage.    Pheres  and   Admetus   are   an   admirable   pair. 
Both  are  selfish,  Admetus  with  pathetic  unconsciousness, 
his  father  with  cynical  candour.     Pheres  is  quite  willing 
to  give  elaborate  honour  to  the  dead  woman  so  long  as 
it  costs  little ;    Admetus — is  it  true  of  him  that  he  is 
ready  to  utter  splendid  heroic  speeches  so  long  as  the 
sacrifice  is  made  to  save  him  ?     Not  so ;  he  feels  terribly. 
But  the  comparison  between  father  and  son  reminds 
us  how  easily  sentiment  can  become  aged  into  etiquette. 
At  present,  however,  he  is  a  man  of  generous  instincts — 
"  spoiled  ".      He  needs  a  salutary  upheaval  of  his  home  : 
from  afar  he  prophesies  of  Thorvald  Helmer  in  A  Dolls 
House.    Alcestis  herself  is  a  curious  study.     Innumerable 
readers  have  extolled  her  as  one  of  the  noblest  figures 
in  Euripides'  great  gallery  of  heroines ;  this  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  she  is  frigid  and  unimaginative,  ungenerous 
and  basely  narrow,  in  her  spiritual  and  social  outlook. 
One  great  and  noble  deed  stands  to  her  credit — she  is 
voluntarily  dying  to  preserve  Admetus'  life.     Our  pro- 
found respect  Alcestis  can  certainly  claim,  but  the  love 
and  pity  of  which  so  much  is  said  are  scarcely  due  to 
her.     They  are  extorted,    if  at   all,   by  the   elaborate 

1  vv.  763  sq. 


190  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

exertions  of  the  other  characters,  who  vie  with  one 
another  in  painting  a  picture  of  the  tenderness  which  has 
illumined  the  Pheraean  palace  like  quiet  sunshine.  But 
a  dramatist  cannot  build  up  a  great  character  by  a  series 
of  testimonies  from  friends.  He  has  undoubtedly  por- 
trayed an  interesting  personality,  as  he  always  does,  but 
to  put  her  beside  creations  like  Medea  and  Phaedra  is 
merely  absurd.  From  the  beginning  of  her  first  intoler- 
able speech 1  we  know  her  for  that  frightful  figure,  the 
thoroughly  good  woman  with  no  imagination,  no  humour, 
no  insight.  One  hears  much  of  the  failures  of  Euripides  ; 
this  is  perhaps  a  real  failure.  For  we  are  not  to  sup- 
pose that  the  rigidity  and  coldness  of  Alcestis  are  a 
dexterous  stroke  of  art ;  it  is  not  his  intention  to  give  a 
novel,  true,  and  unflattering  portrait  of  a  traditional  stage 
favourite,  as  he  so  often  delighted  to  do.  Everything 
indicates  that  he  wished  to  make  Alcestis  sublime  and 
lovable.  But  there  is  a  fatal  difference  between  her 
and  the  later  women.  Euripides  has  realized  her  from 
the  outside.  He  has  given  us  in  the  mouths  of  the  other 
characters  warm  descriptions  of  her  charm,  but  he  has 
not  succeeded  in  drawing  a  charming  woman.  She  has 
not  "  come  alive  "  in  his  hands. 

The  plot  of  the  Alcestis  has  been  studied  by  the 
late  Dr.  Verrall  in  an  essay2  of  extraordinary  skill 
and  interest.  He  lays  special  emphasis  on  certain 
peculiar  features  in  the  treatment.  First,  Heracles 
is  represented  as  in  no  way  the  sublime  demigod  who 
ought  to  have  been  depicted,  in  view  of  the  amazing 
exploit  which  awaits  him  ;  the  only  heroic  language 
put  into  his  mouth  is  uttered  when  he  is  intoxicated, 
and  the  account — if  it  can  be  called  such — which  he 
gives  later  of  Alcestis'  deliverance  shows  a  studied 
lack  of  impressiveness.  Second,  Alcestis  is  interred 
with  unheard-of  speed  ;  Admetus,  seeing  her  expire, 
instantly  makes  ready  to  convey  her  body  to  the  tomb. 
From  these  facts  in  chief  and  from  many  details  Dr. 

1w.  280-325.  3  Euripides  the  Rationalist,  pp.  1-128. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  191 

Verrall  deduces  his  theory  that  Alcestis  never  dies 
at  all.  Her  expectation  of  death  (founded  on  the  story 
about  Apollo's  bargain)  and  the  atmosphere  of  mourning 
which  hangs  over  Admetus'  house  and  capital  on  the 
fatal  day,  have  so  wrought  upon  the  queen  that  she 
finally  swoons.  Later  Heracles  visits  the  tomb,  finds 
Alcestis  recovering,  and  restores  her  to  the  king.  His 
annoyance  with  Admetus,  which  leads  him  to  allow 
his  host  to  "think  what  he  pleases,"  coupled  with  his 
own  rodomontade  at  the  palace  gate,  gave  rise  to 
the  legend  that  Heracles  fought  with  Death  for  a 
woman  who  had  actually  quitted  life.  Finally,  the 
quasi-theological  prologue,  in  which  Apollo  and  Thanatos 
appear  and  give  warrant  to  the  orthodox  rendering 
of  the  story,  is  a  mere  figment,  revealed  as  such  to 
the  discreet  by  its  utterly  ungodlike  tone,  and  only 
tacked  on  to  a  quite  human  drama  in  order  to  save 
the  poet  from  legal  indictment  as  an  enemy  of  current 
theology. 

This  superb  essay  has  met  with  wide-spread  ad- 
miration, some  adhesion,  much  opposition,  but  no 
refutation.  If  we  are  to  judge  of  the  existing  plays  as 
one  mass,  the  examination  of  outstanding  specimens 
of  rationalism  such  as  the  Ion  will  convince  us  that 
the  Alcestis  is  what  Dr.  Verrall  thought  it.  But  this 
play  does  stand  apart  from  the  rest,  as  do  the  Rhesus 
and  the  Cyclops.  However  close  it  may  lie  to  the 
Medea  in  date,  it  is  very  early  in  manner  ;  a  capital  in- 
stance of  this,  the  character  of  Alcestis,  has  already  been 
mentioned.  The  best  view  is,  perhaps,  that  curious 
features  which  in  other  works  might  appear  so  bad 
as  to  be  evidently  intended  for  some  other  than  the 
ostensible  purpose,  are  in  this  case  due  to  inexpertness.1 
For  example,  the  extraordinary  fact  that  Alcestis'  rescue 

1  The  hurried  obsequies  probably  do  not  fall  into  this  category.  We 
are  almost  certainly  to  assume  that  as  Alcestis'  sacrifice  is  to  be  made 
on  a  certain  day,  that  day  must  see  her  not  only  expire,  but  actually 
delivered  up  to  the  power  of  death.  See  Dr.  H.  W.  Hayley's  Introduction 
to  the  play  (pp.  xxxi  sy.)  and  my  Riddle  of  the  Baccha,  pp.  143  W- 


192  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

is  due  to  nothing  but  the  drunkenness  of  Heracles,  is 
perhaps  a  mere  oversight  on  the  poet's  part.  Similarly 
the  poorness  of  the  last  scene  may  be  no  cunning 
device,  but  comparative  poverty  of  inspiration.  It  is 
a  tenable  view  that  Euripides  intended  to  write  a 
quite  orthodox  treatment  of  the  story,  but  has  only 
partially  succeeded  in  reaching  the  sureness  and  bril- 
liance of  his  later  compositions.1 

The  MEDEA  (MrJSeta)  was  produced  in  431  B.C. 
as  the  first  play  of  a  tetralogy  containing  also  Philoctetes, 
Dictys,  and  the  satyric  play  The  Harvesters  (©epicrTcu). 
Euripides  obtained  only  the  third  prize,  and  even  So- 
phocles was  second  to  Euphorion,  son  of  y^Eschylus. 
The  scene  represents  the  house  of  Medea  at  Corinth. 
She  has  come  there  with  her  two  young  sons,  and  her 
husband  Jason,  whom  she  helped  to  gain  the  Golden 
Fleece  in  Colchis.  Jason  has  become  estranged  from 
Medea,  owing  to  his  projected  marriage  with  Glauce, 
the  daughter  of  King  Creon.  At  this  point  the  play 
opens.  The  aged  nurse  of  Medea  comes  forth  and, 
in  one  of  the  most  celebrated  speeches  in  Euripides, 
laments  her  mistress'  flight  from  Colchis  and  her  sub- 
sequent troubles ;  she  fears  that  Medea  will  seek 
revenge.  The  two  boys  return  from  play,  attended 
by  their  old  "paedagogus,"  who  informs  his  fellow- 
servant  that  King  Creon  intends  to  banish  Medea  and 
her  children.  The  nurse  sends  them  within.  The 
chorus  of  Corinthian  women  enter  and  inquire  after 
Medea,  who  comes  from  the  house  in  the  deepest 
distress.  She  speaks  with  deep  feeling  about  the 
sorrows  and  restraints  which  society  puts  upon  women,2 

1 1  cannot  write  with  decision  about  the  A  Ices t is,  because  on  the 
one  hand  universal  testimony  and  opinion  date  it  as  only  seven  years 
anterior  to  the  Medea,  while  my  own  instinct  would  put  it  quite  twenty 
years  earlier  than  that  play.  To  me  it  reads  essentially  like  the  work 
of  a  young  but  highly-gifted  playwright  who  has  recently  lost  his  wife. 

2  These  celebrated  lines  (vv.  230-51)  are  not  in  character.  They 
form  a  splendid  and  moving  criticism  of  the  attitude  adopted  by  the  poet's 
own  Athenian  contemporaries  towards  women,  but  have  only  a  very  partial 
application  to  herself. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  198 

and  after  a  pathetic  description  of  her  own  forlorn 
state,  begs  her  visitors  to  aid  by  silence  if  she  finds 
any  means  of  revenge.  They  have  just  consented, 
when  Creon  appears  and  orders  her  to  leave  the  land 
on  the  instant,  with  her  children.  When  she  ex- 
postulates, he  explains  that  he  fears  her  :  she  is  well 
known  as  a  magician ;  moreover,  she  has  uttered 
threats  against  himself,  his  daughter,  and  Jason.  Medea 
in  vain  seeks  to  escape  her  reputation  for  "wisdom  "  ; 
in  spite  of  her  offer  to  live  quietly  in  Corinth,  Creon 
repeats  his  behest.  By  urgent  pleading,  she  obtains 
from  him  one  day's  grace.  When  the  king  has  de- 
parted, Medea  addresses  the  chorus  with  fierce  triumph  : 
she  now  has  opportunity  for  revenge.  After  considering 
possible  methods,  she  decides  on  poison.  But  first, 
what  refuge  is  she  to  find  when  her  plot  has  succeeded  ? 
she  will  wait  a  little,  and  if  no  chance  of  safe  retirement 
shows  itself,  she  will  attack  her  foes  sword  in  hand. 
The  chorus,  impressed  by  her  spirit,  declare  that  after 
all  the  centuries  during  which  poets  have  covered 
women  with  infamy,  now  at  last  honour  is  coming  to 
their  sex.  They  lament  the  decay  of  truth  and  honour, 
as  shown  in  Jason's  desertion.  Jason  enters,  re- 
proaching Medea  for  her  folly  in  alienating  the  king, 
but  offering  help  to  lighten  her  banishment.  Medea 
falls  upon  him  in  a  terrible  speech,  relating  all  the 
benefits  she  has  conferred  and  the  crime  she  has  com- 
mitted in  his  cause.  Jason  replies  that  it  was  the 
Love-God  which  constrained  her  to  help  him,  nor  is 
he  ungrateful.  But  she  has  her  reward — a  reputation 
among  the  Greeks  for  wisdom.  He  is  contracting 
this  new  marriage  to  provide  for  his  children  ;  Medea's 
complaints  are  due  to  short-sighted  jealousy.  After 
a  bitter  debate,  in  which  Medea  scornfully  refuses  his 
aid,  he  retires.  The  chorus  sing  the  dread  power 
of  Love,  and  lament  the  wreck  which  it  has  made 
of  Medea's  life.  A  stranger  enters — ALgeus,  King 
of  Athens,  who  has  been  to  Delphi  for  an  oracle 
which  shall  remove  his  childlessness.  Medea  begs 
'3 


194  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

him  to  give  her  shelter  in  Athens  whenever  she  comes 
thither  from  Corinth  ;  in  return  for  this,  she  will  by 
her  art  remove  his  childlessness.  He  consents,  and 
withdraws.  Sure  of  her  future,  Medea  now  triumphantly 
expounds  her  plan.  She  will  make  a  pretended  re- 
conciliation with  Jason  and  beg  that  her  children  be 
allowed  to  remain.  They  are  to  seek  Jason's  bride, 
bearing  presents  in  order  to  win  this  favour.  These 
gifts  will  be  poisoned  ;  the  princess  and  all  who  touch 
her  will  perish.  Then  she  will  slay  her  children  to 
complete  the  misery  of  Jason.  The  chorus  in  vain 
protest ;  she  turns  from  them  and  despatches  a  slave 
to  summon  Jason.  The  choric  ode  which  follows  ex- 
tols, in  lines  of  amazing  loveliness,  the  glory  of  Attica 
—its  atmosphere  of  wisdom,  poetry,  and  love.  But 
how  shall  such  a  land  harbour  a  murderess  ?  Jason 
returns,  and  is  greeted  by  Medea  with  a  speech  of 
contrition  by  which  he  is  entirely  deceived.  She  calls 
her  children  forth,  and  there  is  a  pathetic  scene  which 
affects  her,  for  all  her  guilty  purpose,  with  genuine 
emotion.  She  puts  her  pretended  plan  before  Jason, 
and  watches  the  father  depart  with  the  two  boys  and 
their  paedagogus  carrying  the  presents.  The  ode 
which  follows  laments  the  fatal  step  that  has  now 
been  taken.  The  paedagogus  brings  the  boys  back  with 
news  that  their  sentence  of  exile  has  been  remitted, 
and  that  the  princess  has  accepted  the  gifts.  Medea 
addresses  herself  to  the  next  task.  Now  that  her  plot 
against  Glauce  is  in  train,  the  children  must  die.  The 
famous  soliloquy  which  follows  exhibits  the  sway  al- 
ternately exerted  over  her  by  maternal  love  and  the 
thirst  for  revenge  ;  after  a  dreadful  struggle  she  de- 
termines to  obey  her  "  passion  "  and  embrace  vengeance. 
The  children  are  sent  within.  The  next  ode  is  a 
most  painfully  real  and  intimate  revelation  of  a  parent's 
anxiety  and  sorrows.  A  messenger  hurries  up,  crying 
to  Medea  that  she  must  flee  ;  Creon  and  his  daughter 
are  both  dead.  Medea  greets  his  news  with  cool 
delight,  braces  herself  for  her  last  deed,  and  enters  the 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  195 

house.  The  chorus  utter  a  desperate  prayer  to  the 
Sun-god  to  save  his  descendants ;  but  at  once  the 
children's  cries  are  heard.  Scarcely  have  they  died 
away  when  Jason  furiously  enters,  followed  by  hench- 
men. His  chief  thought  is  to  save  his  children  from 
the  vengeance  of  Creon's  kinsmen.  The  chorus  at 
once  tell  him  they  are  dead,  and  how.  In  frenzy  he 
flings  himself  upon  the  door.  But  he  suddenly  recoils 
as  the  voice  of  Medea,  clear  and  contemptuous,  descends 
from  the  air.  She  is  seen  on  high,  driving  a  magic 
chariot  given  to  her  by  the  Sun-god.  There  breaks 
out  a  frightful  wounding  altercation,  Jason  begging 
wildly  to  be  allowed  to  see  and  to  bury  his  children's 
bodies,  Medea  sternly  refusing  ;  she  will  herself  bury 
them  beyond  the  borders  of  Corinth.  She  departs 
through  the  air,  leaving  Jason  utterly  broken. 

The  literary  history  of  this  play  is  extremely  interest- 
ing, though  obscure.  First,  is  it  later,  or  earlier,  than 
the  Trachinice  ?  One  general  idea  is  common  to  the  two 
tragedies  ;  but  the  treatment  is  utterly  dissimilar,  and  one 
may  not  unreasonably  believe  that  Sophocles  has  sought 
to  reprove  Euripides,  to  paint  his  own  conception  of  a 
noble  wronged  wife,  and  to  show  how  a  woman  so  placed 
should  demean  herself.  Secondly,  there  is  some  reason l 
to  believe  that  two  editions  of  the  Medea  were  for  a  time 
in  existence.  Euripides  almost  certainly  himself  re- 
modelled the  work,  presumably  for  a  second  "produc- 
tion," but  to  what  extent  it  is  hard  to  say.  Thirdly,  and 
above  all,  there  is  the  question  of  his  originality.  The 
longer  Greek  "argument"  asserts  that  he  appears  to 
have  borrowed  the  drama  from  Neophron  and  to  have 

x(i)  In  vv.  1231-5,  there  is  a  very  clear  dittography.  That  is,  either 
1231-2,  or  1233-5  would  serve  excellently  as  a  speech  of  the  chorus-leader; 
but  it  is  unlikely  that  the  poet  meant  both  to  be  used;  (ii)  w.  1236-50 
read  like  another  and  far  shorter  version  of  the  great  soliloquy  1021-80; 
(iii)  it  seems  odd  that  Medea,  after  finally  gaining  courage  to  slay  her 
children,  should  before  doing  so,  be  seen  again  and  join  in  conversations  ; 
(iv)  w.  1375-7  give  the  impression  (as  Dr.  Verrall  has  pointed  out)  that  the 
play  is  to  end,  not  as  it  does,  but  with  some  kind  of  arrangement  between 
Medea  and  Jason  ;  (v)  one  or  two  ancient  quotations  purporting  to  come 
from  this  play  are  not  to  be  found  in  our  texts. 


196  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

introduced  alterations.  This  interesting  problem  has 
been  discussed  elsewhere.1  Neophron's  play,  if  one  is  to 
judge  by  the  style  and  versification  of  his  brief  fragments, 
should  be  regarded  as  written  early  in  the  second  half 
of  the  fifth  century. 

The  dramatic  structure  of  the  Medea  calls  for  the 
closest  attention.  In  Sophocles  we  have  observed  how 
that  collision  of  wills  and  emotions,  which  is  always  the 
soul  of  drama,  arises  from  the  confrontation  of  two 
persons.  In  the  present  drama  that  collision  takes  place 
in  the  bosom  of  a  single  person.  Sophocles  would 
probably  have  given  us  a  Jason  whose  claim  upon  our 
sympathy  was  hardly  less  than  that  of  Medea.  Compli- 
cation, with  him,  is  to  be  found  in  his  plots,  not  in  his 
characters.  But  here  we  have  a  subject  which  has  since 
proved  so  rich  a  mine  of  tragic  and  romantic  interest — 
the  study  of  a  soul  divided  against  itself.  Medea's 
wrongs,  her  passionate  resentment,  and  her  plans  of  re- 
venge do  not  merely  dominate  the  play,  they  are  the 
play  from  the  first  line  to  the  close.  Certain  real  or 
alleged  structural  defects  should  be  noted.  First,  we  ob- 
serve the  incredible  part  taken  by  the  chorus  ;  they  raise 
not  a  finger  to  stay  the  designs  of  Medea  upon  the  king 
and  his  daughter  ;  and  we  are  given  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  they  are  unfriendly  to  the  royal  house.  The  episode 
of  y£geus,  moreover,  is  puzzling.  Though  quite  necessary 
in  view  of  Medea's  helpless  condition  and  prepared  for 
by  her  remarks  as  to  a  "  tower  of  refuge,"2  it  is  quite 
unneeded  by  one  who  can  command  a  magic  flying 
chariot.  Moreover,  this  chariot  itself  has  been  often 
censured,  notably  by  Aristotle,3  who  regards  it  as  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  a  deus  ex  machina,  and  on  this 
ground  very  properly  objects  to  it. 

Dr.  Verrall's4  theory  meets  all  these  difficulties. 
He  supposes  that  several  of  Euripides'  plays  were 
originally  written  for  private  performance.  The  Medea, 
so  acted,  had  no  obtrusive  chorus,  and  no  miraculous 

1  See  pp.  21  sq.  2  v.  389  sqq.  3  Poetic^  I454<5. 

*  Four  Plays  of  Eu ripides,  pp.  125-30. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  197 


escape  of  the  murderess.  To  the  episode  of 
corresponded  a  finale  in  which  Medea,  by  allowing  her 
husband  to  bury  the  bodies  of  his  children,  and  by 
instituting  the  religious  rites  referred  to  in  our  present 
text,1  induced  both  Jason  and  the  Corinthians  to  allow 
her  safe  passage  to  Athens.  This  view,  or  a  view 
essentially  resembling  it,  must  be  accepted,  not  so  much 
because  of  the  absurdity  involved  (as  it  appears  to  us) 
by  the  presence  of  the  chorus,  as  the  utter  futility  of 
the  y£geus-scene  in  the  present  state  of  the  text. 

The  characterization  shows  Euripides  at  his  best. 
In  the  heroine  he  gives  us  the  first  and  possibly  the 
finest  of  his  marvellous  studies  in  feminine  human 
nature.  Alcestis  he  viewed  and  described  from  without  ; 
Medea  he  has  imagined  from  within.  Her  passionate 
love,  which  is  so  easily  perverted  by  brutality  into 
murderous  hate,  her  pride,  will-power,  ferocity,  and 
daemonic  energy,  are  all  depicted  with  flawless  mastery 
and  sympathy.  Desperate  and  cruel  as  this  woman 
shows  herself,  she  is  no  cold-blooded  plotter.  Creon 
has  heard  of  her  unguarded  threats,  and  his  knowledge 
wellnigh  ruins  her  project.  Her  first  words  to  Jason, 
"  thou  utter  villain,"  followed  by  a  complete  and  ap- 
palling indictment  of  his  cynicism2  and  ingratitude, 
are  not  calculated  to  lull  suspicion.  But  however  pas- 
sionate, she  owns  a  splendid  intellect.  She  faces  facts3' 
and  understands  her  weaknesses.  When  seeking  an 
advantage,  she  can  hold  herself  magnificently  in  hand. 
The  pretended  reconciliation  with  Jason  is  a  scene  of 
weird  thrill  for  the  spectators.  Her  archness  in  dis- 
cussing his  influence  over  the  young  princess  is  almost 
hideous  ;  and  while  she  weeps  in  his  arms  we  remember 
with  sick  horror  her  scornful  words  after  practising 
successfully  the  same  arts  on  the  king.  Above  all,  there 
is  here  no  petulant  railing  at  "  unjust  gods,"  or  "  blind 
fate".  Her  undoing  in  the  past  has  come  from  "  trust 
in  the  words  of  a  man  that  is  a  Greek  "  ;  4  her  present 

1  W.  1381-3.  2  V.  472  :  dvatStia. 

3  V.  364  •    KCIKMS  TTfTrpanrai  iravTaxfi  •  ris  dvTfpti;  *  W.  oOI  Sf. 


198  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

murderous  rage  springs  from  no  Ate1  but  from  her  own 
passion  (0v/ios).  The  dramatist  has  set  himself  to 
express  human  life  in  terms  of  humanity. 

Jason  is  a  superb  study — a  compound  of  brilliant 
manner,  stupidity,  and  cynicism.  If  only  his  own 
desires,  interests,  and  comforts  are  safe,  he  is  prepared 
to  confer  all  kinds  of  benefits.  The  kindly,  breezy 
words  which  he  addresses  to  his  little  sons  must  have 
made  hundreds  of  excellent  fathers  in  the  audience  feel 
for  a  moment  a  touch  of  personal  baseness — "am  I  not 
something  like  this  ?  "  That  is  the  moral  of  Jason  and 
countless  personages  of  Euripides :  they  are  so  detest- 
able and  yet  so  like  ourselves.  Jason  indeed  dupes 
himself  as  well  as  others.  He  really  thinks  he  is  kind 
and  gentle,  when  he  is  only  surrendering  to  an  emotional 
atmosphere.  His  great  weakness  is  the  mere  perfection 
of  his  own  egotism  ;  he  has  no  power  at  all  to  realize 
another's  point  of  view.  Throughout  the  play  he  simply 
refuses  to  believe  that  Medea  feels  his  desertion  as  she 
asserts.  For  him  her  complaints  are  "empty  words".1 
To  the  very  end  his  self-centred  stupidity  is  almost 
pathetic  :  "  didst  thou  in  truth  determine  on  their  death 
for  the  sake  of  wifely  honour  ?  " 2  One  of  the  most  deadly 
things  in  the  play  hangs  on  this  blindness.  Medea  has 
just  asked  him,  with  whatever  smile  she  can  summon 
up,  to  induce  "your  wife  "  to  procure  pardon  for  the 
children.  Jason,  instead  of  destroying  himself  on  the 
spot  in  self-contempt,  replies  courteously:  "  By  all 
means  ;  and  I  imagine  that  I  shall  persuade  her,  if  she 
is  like  the  rest  of  women  "-3  Considering  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, this  is  perhaps  unsurpassed  for  shameless 
brutality.  Medea,  however,  with  a  gleam  in  her  eye 
which  one  may  imagine,  answers  with  equal  urbanity, 
even  with  quiet  raillery.  She  has  perhaps  no  reason 
to  complain  ;  it  is  precisely  this  portentous  insensibility 
which  will  secure  her  success. 

1  v.  450.  a  v.  1367. 

*  vv.  944  sq .  Two  MSS.,  however  (followed  by  Murray),  give  the 
second  line  to  Medea. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  199 

The  minor  characters  are,  in  their  degree,  excellently 
drawn  —  Creon  above  all.  His  short  scene  is  unforget- 
table ;  it  is  that  familiar  sight  —  a  weak  man  encouraging 
himself  to  firmness  by  exaggerating  his  own  severity. 
His  delicious  little  grumble,  "  my  chivalrous  instincts 
have  got  me  into  trouble  more  often  than  I  like  to  think 
of,"  l  stamps  him  as  the  peer  of  Dogberry  and  Justice 
Shallow. 

As  a  piece  of  Greek,  the  Medea  is  perhaps  the  finest 
work  of  Euripides.  The  iambics  have  a  simple 
brilliance  and  flexible  ease  which  had  been  unknown 
hitherto,  and  which  indeed  were  never  rivalled  after- 
wards. Such  things  as 

uv  yap  rt  p'  Tj8iKT)Kas  ;  e£e8ov 
OTO)  ere  dvp&s 


in  Medea's  appeal  to  Creon,  or  Jason's  rebuke  to  her  : 

irav  nepSos  fjyov  ^r)fuovfj,fvr)  <f)vyfj,3 

or  the  expression  of  her  "  melting  mood  "  : 


avrovs  •  £t)v  8'  or'  (£T)I>XOV  TCKVO, 
fl<rrj\6f  p  OIKTOS  fl  y(vf]<rerai  rdSe,4 

are  in  their  unobtrusive  way  masterpieces  of  language. 
But  it  is  in  vain  to  quote  specimens  ;  the  whole  work 
is  as  novel  and  as  great  in  linguistic  skill  as  in  dramatic 
art.  In  particular  the  speeches  of  the  nurse  at  the 
opening,  of  Medea  when  rebuking  and  again  when 
conciliating  Jason  —  above  all,  her  fearful  soliloquy  and 
address  to  her  children,  touch  the  summit  of  dramatic 
eloquence.  The  lyric  passages  are  on  the  whole  less 
remarkable,  but  the  mystic  loveliness  of  the  ode5 
celebrating  the  glories  of  Attica,  and  the  anapaests  ° 
which  give  so  haunting  an  expression  to  a  parent's 
yearning  over  his  children,  are  among  the  most  precious 
things  this  tender  as  well  as  terrible  poet  has  bequeathed 
to  us. 

1  V.  349  :  alftovfifvos  Se  TToXXa  817  8te'(p$opa. 

2  vv.  309  sq.  *  v.  454.  4  vv.  930  sq. 
5vv.  824-45.                     8vv.  1081-1115. 


200  GREEK  TRAGEDY 


The  HERACLEID^;1  ('HpaKXetScu)  or  Children  of 
Heracles,  is  a  short2  play  of  uncertain  date,  usually  re- 
ferred to  the  early  years  of  the  Peloponnesian  War  (431- 
404)  and  by  some  to  the  date  422  B.C.  Nothing  is 
known  as  to  the  companion  plays,  or  the  success  obtained 
by  the  tetralogy. 

The  scene  is  laid  before  the  temple  of  Zeus  at  Mara- 
thon in  Attica.  The  young  sons  of  Heracles  are  dis- 
covered with  the  aged  lolaus,  their  father's  comrade, 
who  explains  how,  after  Heracles  departed  to  Heaven, 
Eurystheus  of  Argos  has  hunted  the  hero's  family  through 
Greece.  They  have  taken  refuge  in  Attica  ;  Alcmena, 
mother  of  Heracles,  and  the  daughters  are  now  within 
the  temple  ;  Hyllus,  the  eldest  son,  has  gone  to  seek 
another  refuge  in  case  Athens  fails  them.  Copreus,3  a 
herald  from  Argos,  enters  and  is  dragging  the  suppli- 
ants away  when  the  chorus  of  aged  Athenians  enter. 
Copreus  disregards  their  remonstrances,  but  is  confronted 
by  the  king,  Demophon,  and  his  brother  Acamas.  He 
insists  that  the  Heracleidse  are  Argive  subjects  :  let  not 
Demophon  risk  war  with  Argos.  lolaus  appeals  for 
protection,  and  is  granted  it  ;  Copreus  retires  with  threats 
of  instant  war.  After  an  ode  of  defiance  by  the  chorus, 
Demophon  returns  with  news  that  a  noble  virgin  must 
be  sacrificed  to  Persephone,  and  he  will  not  slay  an 
Athenian  girl.  lolaus  is  in  despair,  when  Macaria,  one 
of  Heracles'  daughters,  comes  forth  and  offers  herself. 
After  a  proud  but  melancholy  farewell  she  goes.  A  serf 
of  Hyllus  arrives,  bringing,  he  says,  good  news.  At  this 
lolaus  joyfully  summons  Alcmena,  who  imagines  that 
another  herald  is  assaulting  him  ;  but  he  announces  that 
Hyllus  has  returned  with  a  large  host  of  allies.  lolaus, 
despite  the  serf's  rueful  gibes,  insists  on  going  to  the  fray 

1  Arrangement  :  protagonist,  lolaus,  Eurystheus  ;  deuteragonist, 
Demophon,  Alcmena  ;  tritagonist,  Copreus,  Macaria,  attendant,  messenger. 
There  were  a  great  number  of  mutes  :  Acamas,  the  sons  of  Heracles,  and 
probably  some  Athenian  soldiers. 

3  It  has  only  1055  lines,  but  there  are  probably  gaps  in  our  text. 

3  This  name  is  not  mentioned  by  Euripides.  The  scholiasts  have 
taken  it  from  Iliad,  XV,  639. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  201 

and,  dressed  in  ancient  arms  from  the  temple,  totters  off. 
The  chorus  proclaim  the  justice  of  their  cause,  invoking 
Zeus  and  Athena.  The  attendant  returns  with  news  of 
complete  victory.  lolaus  was  taken  into  Hyllus'  chariot 
and  being  (by  favour  of  Heracles  and  Hebe)  miracu- 
lously restored  for  a  while  to  his  youthful  vigour,  captured 
Eurystheus.  The  chorus  celebrate  the  glory  of  Athens  and 
acclaim  Heracles,  who  is  now  proved  (despite  report)  to  be 
dwelling  in  Heaven.  Eurystheus  is  led  in  and  Alcmena 
gloats  over  him,  promising  him  death.  The  messenger 
intervenes  :  Athenians  do  not  kill  prisoners.  She  in- 
sists. Then  Eurystheus  breaks  silence  :  it  was  Hera 
who  forced  him  to  these  persecutions,  and  if  he  is  now 
slain  in  cold  blood,  a  curse  will  fall  on  the  slayer.  The 
chorus  at  length  accept  Alcmena's  evasion  that  he 
be  killed  and  his  corpse  be  given  to  his  friends.  Eurys- 
theus presents  Athens  with  an  oracle  which  declares  that 
his  spirit  shall  be  hostile  to  the  Heracleidse,  when,  forget- 
ting this  kindness,  they  invade  Attica.1  Alcmena  bids 
her  attendants  convey  Eurystheus  within  and  destroy 
him.  The  chorus2  briefly  express  satisfaction  at  being 
free  from  this  guilt,  and  the  play  ends. 

The  Heracleidce  is  one  of  the  least  popular 3  among 
Euripides'  works.  It  has  indeed  unmistakable  beauties. 
The  heroic  daughter  of  Heracles  and  her  proud  insist- 
ence on  no  rivalry  in  her  sacrifice  have  always  moved 
admiration.  The  Greek  style,  moreover,  though  not 
equal  to  that  of  the  Medea,  has  all  the  Euripidean  lim- 
pidity and  ease.  Such  lines  as 

Tts  8'  €i  (TV  ;    irov  (rot  (TVVTV\<iL>v  tifj.VTjfj.ovS>  ;  * 

in  lolaus'  conversations  with  Hyllus'  thrall,  and  the 
lyric  phrase 

&  8'  opera  fiaivei  8ia  fj.6^8(i>v  5 

1  In  the  Peloponnesian  war.     The  Spartans  were  believed  the  descen- 
dants of  Hyllus  and  his  brothers. 

2  Professor   Murray,   however,  supposes  another  lacuna   here,   and 
thinks  there  were  two  semi -choruses,  one  party  supporting  Alcmena,  the 
other  disagreeing. 

3  Even   in   ancient   times  it  seems  to  have   enjoyed  little   attention. 
4v.  638.  *v.  625. 


202  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

haunt  the  ear.  Moreover,  the  chivalry  with  which 
Demophon  and  his  citizens  champion  the  helpless  must 
have  stirred  Athenian  hearts.  But  our  pleasure  is 
repeatedly  checked  by  incidents  grotesque,  horrible,  or 
inexplicable.  To  the  first  category  belongs  the  absurd 
scene  in  which  lolaus  totters  away  amid  badinage  to  do 
battle  with  Argos.  There  is  a  comic  note,  again,  in  the 
scene  where  Alcmena  for  the  first  time  appears  and  sup- 
poses that  Hyllus'  messenger  is  another  hostile  herald 
from  Argos.  As  we  know  who  he  is,  her  attack  on 
him  shows  that  painful  mixture  of  the  pathetic  and 
the  ludicrous  which  so  often  marks  Euripides'  work  ; 
here  the  comic  prevails  over  the  touching.  Secondly, 
the  interview  in  which  Eurystheus  is  presented  to 
Alcmena,  who  gloats  at  her  ease  over  him,  is  horrible, 
however  natural.  And  finally  the  inexplicable  or  at 
least  puzzling  features  are  perhaps  the  most  striking 
of  all. 

The  first  difficulty  concerns  the  personality  which 
forms  the  background  of  the  whole ;  the  apotheosis 
of  Heracles  is  treated  in  equivocal  fashion  throughout. 
lolaus1  alone  seems  entirely  convinced.  Alcmena, 
after  news  of  the  victory  to  which  her  son  has  given 
miraculous  aid,  utters  the  candid  words  : — 2 

After  long  years,  O  Zeus,  my  woes  have  touched  thee, 
Yet  take  my  thanks  for  all  that  hath  been  wrought. 
My  son — though  erstwhile  I  refused  belief — 
I  know  in  truth  doth  dwell  amid  the  gods. 

And  her  faith  is  echoed  in  less  prosaic  language  3  by  the 
chorus,  who  proclaim  the  falsehood  of  the  story  that 
Heracles  after  his  passing  by  fire  went  down  to  the 
abode  of  Hades  ;  in  truth  he  dwells  in  Heaven  and  in  the 
golden  court  lives  as  the  spouse  of  Hebe.  But  these 
confessions  are  due  to  the  marvels  on  the  battle-field, 
marvels  upon  which  the  narrator  himself  takes  pains  to 
throw  grave  doubt.4  Macaria,  though  she  has  every 

1  vv.  9  Jjr.,  540.  a  vv.  869  sqq.  *  w.  910  sqq. 

4  Down  to  v.  847  his  story  contains  nothing  superhuman.     Then  "  up 
to  this  point  I  saw  with  mine  own  eyes ;    the  rest  of  my  tale  depends 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  203 

reason1  to  dilate  on  the  glories  of  her  father,  speaks 
of  him  but  briefly  and  with  only  the  normal  filial  re- 
spect.2 Of  the  others,  Copreus  ignores  him  ;  from  the 
man's  character  we  expect  sneers  and  refutations  of  the 
miraculous  stories  such  as  are  put  by  our  poet  in  the 
mouth  of  Lycus.3  Eurystheus  speaks  of  him  generously, 
but  in  terms  which  imply  that  he  has  never  heard,  much 
less  accepted,  the  marvellous  accounts  of  his  enemy  :  "  I 
knew  thy  son  was  no  mere  cypher,  but  in  good  sooth 
a  man  ;  for  even  though  he  was  mine  enemy,  yet  will 
I  speak  well  of  him,  that  man  of  worth  ".4  Demophon 
himself,  the  champion  of  Heracles'  children,  even  when 
he  has  been  reminded  (by  lolaus)  how  the  hero  rescued 
Theseus,  father  of  Demophon,  from  Hades  itself,  in  his 
reply  treats  this  overwhelming  claim  ambiguously  and 
with  nothing  more  than  politeness.5  All  this  seems  to 
show  the  dramatist's  belief  that  Heracles  was  simply  a 
"  noble  man  "  —  an  ecr^Xo?  dvr)p  —  whose  divine  traits  are 
the  offspring  of  minds  like  those  of  lolaus  and  Alcmena, 
whose  sagacity  throughout  the  drama  is  painfully  low. 

Macaria's  fate,  also,  at  first  sight  causes  perplexity. 
After  she  leaves  the  scene,  nothing6  more  is  heard  of 
her.  When  and  where  she  dies  we  are  not  told  ;  the 
promise  7  of  lolaus  that  she  shall  be  honoured  by  him 
in  death,  as  in  life,  above  all  women,  produces  no  effect 


on  hearsay,"  rairo  rov8'  fj8r)  K\VO>V  Aeyoi/*'  av  aAX&>i>,  8fvpo  8'  avros\el(ri8a>v' 
And  when  he  mentions  the  identification  of  the  miraculous  lights  with 
Hebe  and  Heracles,  he  attributes  the  theory  to  of  o-o^wrepot,  "  cleverer 
heads  than  mine,"  as  we  may  translate  it. 

1  The  oracle  has  demanded  the  daughter  of  "  a  well-bom  father," 
and  she  of  course  mentions  her  own  qualification  in  this  respect,  without 
proceeding  to  dilate  (as  one  would  think  inevitable  in  Euripides  —  or  any- 
one else)  on  the  quite  unrivalled  "  nobility  "  of  her  father. 

2  vv.  513,  563.  3  Hercules  Furens,vv.  151-64. 

4  vv.  997-9  ;  v.  990,  referring  to  the  hostility  of  Hera,  is  too  vague  to 
stand  as  a  warrant  for  the  divine  birth  of  Heracles. 

5  vv.  240  sq. 

6  It  has   been  thought  that  vv.  819-22  indicate  the  sacrifice  of  the 
maiden.     They  describe  the  soothsayers'  offering  just  before  the  battle  : 
dfpiecrav  Aat/iaii'  ftporfiaiv  tvdvs  ovpiov  <f)6vov.       If  £}poTtia>v  is  right  (though 
ftoTfiatv,  "  of  sheep,"  is  a  tempting  alteration)  the  reference  to  the  girl's 
heroism  is  brutally  curt. 

7  vv.  597  sgg. 


204  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

— for  we  are  told  nothing  about  her  burial  ;  whether 
the  advent  of  Hyllus'  reinforcements  should  or  does 
make  any  difference  to  the  necessity  for  the  sacrifice  is 
not  discussed.  But  there  is  good  reason  to  suppose 
that  a  whole  episode,  on  Macaria's  death,  has  been  lost. 

The  army  of  Hyllus  is  the  most  astonishing  feature 
in  the  play.  All  the  action  and  all  the  pathos  depend 
upon  the  helplessness  which  involves  the  Heracleidae. 
Every  other  city  has  rejected  them  ;  if  Athens  fails  all 
is  lost — so  we  are  told  repeatedly.1  Yet  at  the  last 
moment  Hyllus  returns  with  a  positive  army.  Whence 
has  it  come  ?  How  can  lolaus  have  been  ignorant  that 
such  aid  was  possible?  We  are  told  nothing.  The 
Athenian  leaders  apparently,  lolaus  and  Alcmena2 
certainly,  receive  these  incredible  tidings  with  no 
feeling  save  placid  satisfaction. 

Finally,  if  this  drama  is  composed  in  order  to  extol 
the  nobility  of  Athens  in  espousing  the  cause  of  the 
weak,  it  is  extraordinary  that  so  dubious  an  example 
should  be  selected.  The  suppliants  are  ancestors  of 
those  very  Spartans  who,  when  the  drama  was  produced, 
were  the  bitter  and  dangerous  enemies  of  Athens.  Was 
not  her  ancient  kindness  in  saving  the  first  generation  of 
these  foes  a  piece  of  folly  ?  Eurystheus  points  this  moral 
at  the  close.3  Alcmena  herself,  in  her  cold  ferocity4 
and  her  quibbling  5  over  the  dues  of  piety,  is  a  clear 
prophecy  of  what  fifth-century  Athenians  most  detested 
in  the  Spartan  character.  Moreover,  the  plea  of  Copreus 
is  perfectly  just :  Argos  has  a  right  to  punish  her  own 
people  if  condemned ;  whether  they  were  wrongly  so 
condemned  is  no  concern  of  Athens. 

The  upshot  seems  to  be  that  Eurystheus  has  a  bitter 
quarrel  with  a  powerful  noble,  so  bitter  that  when  his 
enemy  dies  the  king  dares  not  leave  his  children  at 

1  There  is,  however,  in  vv.  45-7  an  isolated  statement  which  vaguely 
contradicts  this. 

2  Her  remark  on  hearing  the  news  (v.  665) :  TOV&  ovKf6'  rjplv  TOV  \6yov 
ori  817,  sets  the  seal  upon  her  utter  feebleness  of  mind. 

3vv.  1035-7.  4vv.  1049-52  and  elsewhere  in  the  last  scene. 

5vv.  1020-5. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  205 

large.  Through  the  sentimental  weakness  of  her  ruler 
Athens  is  drawn  into  the  dispute,  and  history  shows  that 
she  made  a  frightful  mistake. 

The  HiPPOLYTUS l 
<f)6pos)  was  produced  in  428  B.C.  and  obtained  the  first 
prize.  The  scene  is  laid  in  Troezen  before  a  house 
belonging  to  Theseus,  King  of  Athens.  Aphrodite,  the 
goddess  of  love,  speaks  the  prologue,  explaining  how 
Hippolytus,  son  of  Theseus,  scorns  her  and  consorts 
always  with  Artemis,  the  virgin  huntress-deity.  Aphro- 
dite therefore  has  caused  Phaedra,  the  wife  of  Theseus, 
to  fall  in  love  with  her  stepson.  The  king  in  his  wrath 
shall  bring  about  the  death  of  his  son.  The  prince 
enters  followed  by  his  huntsmen,  and  turning  to  the 
statue  of  Artemis  with  a  beautiful  prayer  places  garlands 
upon  it,  but  disregards  the  image  of  Aphrodite.  After 
the  hunters  have  entered  the  palace,  the  chorus  of 
Troezen ian  women  come  to  inquire  after  the  ailing 
Phsedra.  She  is  borne  forth,  attended  by  her  nurse,  who 
seeks  to  calm  the  feverishness  of  her  mistress  and  her 
passionate  longing  for  the  wild  regions  of  the  chase. 
She  gradually  learns  that  the  queen  is  consumed  by 
passion  for  Hippolytus.  Phaedra,  now  quite  calm, 
describes  her  fight  with  temptation  ;  when  she  saw  that 
victory  was  impossible  she  chose  death,  and  for  this 
reason  has  refused  food.  The  nurse  offers  very  different 
counsel.  Why  should  Phaedra  strive  against  her  in- 
stincts? Even  the  gods  have  erred  through  love;  she 
will  cure  her  mistress.  The  remedy,  she  soon  hints,  is 
nothing  but  surrender.  At  this  Phaedra  is  so  indignant 
that  the  other  again  takes  refuge  in  ambiguity ;  she 
retires  to  fetch  certain  charms.  The  ode  which  follows 
proclaims  the  irresistible  sway  of  love.  The  queen,  in 
the  meantime,  has  been  standing  near  the  palace-door 

1  Arrangement    (according    to    Croiset) :    protagonist,    Hippolytus; 
deuter.igonist,  Aphrodite,  Phaedra,  Theseus  (the  body  of  Phaedra  being 
represented  by  a  lay-figure)  ;  tritagonist,  Artemis,  servant  (who  announces 
the  suicide),  nurse,  messenger. 

2  This  additional  name  (The  Crowned  H.)  was  given  to  distinguish 
the  play  from  the  earlier  'lirn6\vros  KoXuTTTo^ei'os  (now  lost),  or  Hippolytus 
Veiled. 


206  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

and  now  recoils  in  horror — she  has  heard  Hippolytus 
reviling  the  nurse  ;  nothing,  she  cries,  is  now  left  to  her 
but  speedy  death.  Hippolytus  enters  in  fury,  followed 
by  the  nurse.  After  an  altercation  in  which  he  threatens 
to  break  his  oath  of  secrecy,  he  breaks  forth  into  a 
lengthy  and  bitter  tirade  against  women,  but  finally 
promises  to  keep  his  oath.  When  the  prince  has  retired 
Phaedra  proclaims  her  resolve  to  avoid  shame  for  her 
family  and  herself  by  death,  obtaining  from  the  chorus 
a  promise  not  to  divulge  what  has  occurred  ;  at  the 
same  time  she  obscurely  threatens  Hippolytus.  After 
she  has  gone,  the  chorus  voice  their  yearning  to  be  free 
from  this  world  of  sin  and  woe ;  surely  this  trouble  is 
a  curse  brought  by  Phaedra  from  her  house  in  Crete,  a 
curse  which  is  even  now  forcing  her  neck  into  the  noose. 
A  messenger  rushes  forth  crying  out  that  the  queen  has 
hanged  herself.  Theseus  returns  home  and  is  speedily 
apprised  of  his  loss.  Suddenly  he  sees  a  letter  clutched 
in  his  dead  wife's  hand  ;  on  reading  it  he  announces 
in  fury  that  Hippolytus  has  violated  his  connubial 
rights.  He  appeals  to  his  father  Poseidon,  god  of  the 
sea,  who  has  promised  to  grant  him  any  three  prayers, 
to  destroy  Hippolytus.  The  prince  returns,  and  Theseus, 
after  a  stinging  attack  on  his  son's  pretensions,  banishes 
him.  Hippolytus  is  prevented  by  his  oath  from  defend- 
ing himself  effectually,  and  sorrowfully  turns  away. 
The  chorus  ponder  upon  the  mysterious  ways  of  Heaven 
and  lament  the  downfall  of  the  brilliant  prince.  One  of 
Hippolytus'  attendants  returns  and  informs  Theseus 
that  his  son  is  on  the  point  of  death.  A  gigantic  bull, 
sent  by  Poseidon  out  of  the  sea,  terrified  Hippolytus' 
horses,  which  bolted  and  mangled  their  master.  Theseus 
receives  these  tidings  with  grim  satisfaction,  but  the 
goddess  Artemis  appears  and  reveals  all  the  facts. 
Theseus  is  utterly  prostrated.  Hippolytus  is  carried 
in,  lamenting  his  agony  and  unmerited  fate.  Artemis 
converses  with  him  affectionately  and  there  follows 
between  the  two  men  a  few  words  lamenting  the  curse 
fulfilled  by  Poseidon.  Artemis  consoles  her  favourite  and 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  207 

disappears.  Hippolytus  gives  his  father  full  forgive- 
ness, and  dies  in  his  embrace. 

The  main  impression  left  by  a  repeated  study  of  this 
magnificent  drama  is  a  sense  of  the  loveliness  and  de- 
light which  the  transfusing  genius  of  a  poet  can  throw 
around  the  ruin  worked  by  blind  instinct  and  hate,  even 
around  a  whole  world  tortured  by  belief  in  gods  whose 
supreme  intelligence,  will,  and  power,  are  quick  to 
punish,  but  never  pardon.  No  poem  in  the  world  con- 
veys more  pungently  the  aroma  of  life's  inextinguishable 
beauty  and  preciousness.  Life  does  not  become  ugly 
because  full  of  sin  or  pain.  It  can  only  become  ugly  by 
growing  unintelligible.  So  long  as  it  can  be  understood, 
it  remains  to  man,  whose  joys  are  all  founded  upon  per- 
ception, a  thing  that  can  be  loved  ;  this  is  the  one  and 
sufficient  reason  why  tragic  drama  is  beautiful. 

For  the  writer  of  the  Hippolytus,  then,  life  is  some- 
thing profoundly  sorrowful  yet  profoundly  dear.  Hip- 
polytus' address  to  Artemis  on  his  return  from  the  chase 
is  compact  of  that  mystic  loveliness  which  fills  remote 
glades  with  a  visible  presentment  of  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness : — 

For  thee,  my  Queen,  this  garland  have  I  twined 
Of  blossoms  from  that  meadow  virginal, 
Where  neither  shepherd  dares  to  graze  his  flock, 
Nor  hath  the  scythe  made  entry  :  yet  the  bee 
Doth  haunt  the  mead,  that  voyager  of  spring, 
'Mid  Nature's  shyest  charm  of  stream  and  verdure. 
There  may  no  base  man  enter  ;  only  he, 
Who,  taught  by  instinct,  uninstructed  else, 
Hath  taken  Virtue  for  his  star  of  life, 
May  pluck  the  flow' rets  of  that  pleasance  pure. 
Come,  Queen  beloved,  for  thy  shining  hair 
Accept  this  wreath  from  hands  of  innocence  ! 
To  me  alone  of  all  mankind  is  given 
Converse  to  hold  and  company  with  thee, 
Hearing  thy  voice,  although  thy  face  be  hid. 
To  the  end  of  life,  as  now,  may  I  be  thine  ! 1 

This  passion  for  natural  beauty  as  the  background 
of  emotional  life  recurs  throughout.  The  Trcezenian 
women  as  they  enter  tell  of  their  informant — not  "  some 

1w.  73-87. 


208  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

one  talking  near  the  place  where  men  play  draughts," 
as  in  the  Medea,  but  a  woman  in  a  picture  :  — 

Where  waters  leap, 
Waters  that  flow  (men  say)  from  the  far-off  western  sea, 

Down  the  rock-face, 

And  gush  from  the  steep 

To  a  deep  place 
Where  pitchers  may  dip  far  down  —  thence  hath  come  a  message  to  me.1 

Phaedra  in  her  delirium  sees  visions  of  unfettered  life 
"beneath  the  poplars,  amid  the  deep  grass,"  she  fancies 
herself  cheering  on  the  hunting  hounds  through  the 
pine-glades,  and  yearns  to  feel  in  her  grasp  "  the  iron- 
pointed  shaft  "  —  words  to  which  we  come  back  with 
deeper  pain  when  in  almost  the  same  language  Hip- 
polytus,  now  himself  delirious,  longs  to  let  out  his 
tortured  life  with  a  "  two-edged  spear"  .2  When  she 
enters  the  house  to  seek  death,  the  chorus  pour  forth 
their  yearning  for  escape  from  the  sin  and  sorrow  of 
this  life  to  romantic  regions  where  all  is  grace  and  un- 
stained peace  :  —  3 

In  yon  precipice-face  might  I  hide  me  from  sorrow, 

And  God,  in  his  love,  of  the  air  make  me  free  ! 
Ah,  to  speed  with  the  sea-gulls  —  alight  on  the  morrow 

Where  Eridanus  mingles  his  waves  with  the  sea  ! 
There  for  ever  the  sisters  of  Phaethon  languish, 

For  grief  of  his  fate  bowing  hush'd  o'er  the  stream  ; 
Like  eyes  in  the  gloaming,  the  tears  of  their  anguish 

Up  through  the  dark  water  as  amber-drops  gleam. 
Or  far  let  me  wing  to  the  faery  beaches 

Where  the  Maids  of  the  Sunset  'neath  apple-boughs  dance, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Waters  his  last  purple  reaches 

Hath  closed  to  the  mariner's  restless  advance  ; 
Where  from  Atlas  the  sky  arches  down  to  the  streaming 

Of  the  sea,  and  the  spring  of  Eternity  flows 
Where  the  mansion  of  Zeus  on  earth's  bosom  is  dreaming 

'Mid  life  like  a  lily  and  bliss  like  a  rose. 

Theseus  himself  expresses  this  sense  of  the  fragile 
beauty  of  life  in  lines  4  which  recall  the  unearthly  charm 
of  Sophocles  :  — 

opvis  yap  <wc  TLS  tK  %(p£)v  u<pavros  ei, 

s  Atdou  Kpainvov  6pp.Tjcracrd  /io«. 


'vv.  121-5.  SVY-  208-31.     Cp.  w.  219-21  with  w.  1375  sq. 

*vv.  732-51.  4vv.  828-9. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  209 

Even  Artemis  the  unloving  can  tell  of  life's  charm  sur- 
viving death  itself  in  some  wise,  an  immortality  of 
beautiful  remembrance.1  Throughout,  the  poet  has 
used  all  his  power  to  invest  the  theme  with  loveliness  of 
phrasing.  Elsewhere,  skilful  as  his  writing  is,  he  often 
gives  us  what  is  practically  prose ;  the  Hippolytus  is  his 
nearest  approach  to  the  manner  of  Sophocles. 

Nor  is  the  likeness  confined  to  verbal  expression. 
The  theology  is,  or  claims  to  be,  the  theology  of 
Sophocles.  The  traditional  Olympians  are  accepted  as 
persons,  with  the  powers  and  purposes  which  current 
belief  attributed  to  them.  This  is  the  view  which 
Sophocles  accepts  and  expounds.  Euripides  who  cer- 
tainly did  not  accept  it,  here  expounds  it — in  his  own 
way  and  with  deadly  results.  Many  times  Euripides 
questions  the  very  existence  of  these  deities,  but  now  he 
sees  fit  to  accept  them  for  a  moment,  and  depicts  life  as 
lived  under  such  rulers.  Men  and  women  can  feel  and 
recreate  the  beauty  of  this  world,  but  these  gods  time  and 
again  dash  all  into  pitiful  fragments.  "  The  world  is  ruled 
by  stupid  fiends,  who  spend  eternity  thwarting  one  an- 
other. Do  we  dwell  in  a  universe  or  a  grinning  chaos  ?  " 

Is  this  all?  Very  far  from  it.  Almost  all  the 
action  of  the  tragedy  could  be  accounted  for — had  we 
not  this  disconcerting  divine  explanation — on  purely 
"human"  lines,  though  what  "human"  means  is,  as 
the  poet  plainly  perceives,  no  less  difficult  a  question 
than  that  of  theology.  But  at  least  the  sorrows  of 
Trcezen  scarcely  need  the  baneful  persons  of  Olympus. 
For  the  three  sufferers  are,  after  all,  not  blameless. 
They  share  that  casual  sinfulness — for  we  cannot  avoid 
the  use  of  question-begging  words — which  is  the  lot 
of  man.  Hippolytus  errs  (in  Greek  eyes)  by  his  com- 
plete aversion  from  sexual  passion  ;  he  errs  in  all  eyes 
by  the  arrogance  with  which  he  proclaims  it.  His 
famous  speech2  is  too  long  for  a  spontaneous  burst  of 

1  vv.  1423-30. 

3vv.  616-68.  He  seems  to  begin  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice  at  v.  654. 


210  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

resentment ;  it  becomes  a  frigid  piece  of  self-glorifica- 
tion. It  is  precisely  this  arrogance  which  stings  Phaedra 
to  the  thought  of  revenge.1  Theseus,  in  spite  of  the 
pathetic  blindness  with  which  he  imputes'2  his  misery  to 
some  ancestor's  sin,  is  the  original  cause  of  it.  Hip- 
polytus  is  the  offspring  of  his  youthful  incontinence.3 
Then,  when  he  has  "settled  down,"  it  is  precisely  his 
respectable  marriage  which  brings  the  consequence  of 
his  early  amour  to  fruition  ;  his  son  and  his  young  wife 
are  of  nearly  the  same  age.  As  for  Phaedra  herself,  the 
passion  which  she  feels  need  not  be  attributed  to  a  per- 
sonal goddess.  Lawlessness  is  in  her  veins  ;  her  mother 
and  sister  have  both  sinned  :4  Crete,  "the  Isle  of  Awful 
Love," 5  brands  its  name  upon  line  after  line  of  the  play. 
For  this  predisposition  to  unchastity  many  of  Euripides' 
contemporaries,  as  of  our  own,  would  have  blamed  her 
heartily.  The  poet  himself  does  not,  as  his  splendidly 
sympathetic  treatment  of  her  shows ;  but  neither  does 
he  feel  any  need  to  lay  the  blame  upon  Aphrodite. 
Phaedra's  offence,  her  contribution  to  disaster,  lies  in 
her  early  toying  with  her  passion,  when  she  founded 
a  shrine  of  the  love-goddess  in  Hippolytus'  name;0 
in  her  accompanying  Theseus  (apparently  without  a 
struggle)  to  Trcezen  and  the  society  of  the  prince  ;  in 
her  determination  to  punish  Hippolytus  for  his  bitter 
pride. 

To  banish  "  the  gods  "  and  attribute  sin  to  "  he- 
redity," is  that  not  merely  to  substitute  one  word  for 
another  ?  Yes,  but  the  poet  herein  has  his  eye  fixed  on 
formal  theology.  Well  aware  that  the  glib  invocation 
of  "  heredity"  or  "environment  "  is  no  more  conclusive 
than  "the  will  of  the  gods,"  he  yet  insists  that  sin  is  a 
matter  of  psychology.  We  must  study  human  nature  if 
we  mean  to  understand  and  conquer  sin.  If  we  regard 

'vv.  728-31.  *  w.  831-3.     Hippolytus  agrees,  vv.  1379-83. 

8w.  967-9,  where  note  the  emphatic  e'yei.  And  the  word  v66os  is 
frequent  in  the  play  ;  see  especially  Hippolytus'  exclamation  in  vv.  1082-3, 
which,  by  a  finely  dramatic  stroke,  immediately  turns  Theseus'  anger  to 
hot  fury. 

4  vv.  337-41.  'Professor  Murray.  6  vv.  29-33 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  211 

Aphrodite  or  Artemis  as  persons  external  to  ourselves 
and  of  superhuman  power  we  lose  all  hope  of  moral  im- 
provement in  our  own  hearts.  But  if  we  accept  these 
devastating  powers  as  forces  in  human  nature,  we  may 
hope  by  study  and  self-discipline  in  some  degree  to 
control  them. 

Thus  the  drama  is  full  of  subtly  wise  psychology : 
it  is  an  interesting  comment  on  much  that  has  been 
written  about  "  realist"  play-writing  that  the  Hippolytus, 
which  contains  some  of  the  most  romantic  poetry  in 
Greek  literature,  is  also  as  sincere  and  profound  in 
characterization  as  the  work  of  Ibsen  himself.  Theseus 
and  his  son  we  have  already  considered  ;  Phaedra  and 
her  nurse  require  deeper  study.  The  latter  is  a  master- 
piece among  the  "  minor "  characters  of  Euripides. 
Her  tenderness  for  the  young  queen  and  passionate 
desire  at  all  costs  to  win  her  peace  ;  the  dignity  which 
life  and  its  contemplation  can  give  even  to  coarse-fibred 1 
natures  ;  her  feeling  for  the  deepest  pathos  of  life — 
these  things  constitute  a  great  dramatic  figure.  It  is  to 
her  that  the  poet  gives  his  most  poignant  expression  of 
that  mingled  pain  and  beauty  which  we  discussed  a 
moment  ago  : — 

But  if  any  far-off  state  there  be, 

Dearer  than  life  to  mortality  ; 

The  hand  of  the  Dark  hath  hold  thereof, 

And  mist  is  under  and  mist  above, 

And  so  we  are  sick  for  life  and  cling 

On  earth  to  this  nameless  and  shining  thing. 

For  other  life  is  a  fountain  sealed, 

And  the  deeps  below  us  are  unrevealed, 

And  we  drift  on  legends  for  ever  ! 2 

She,  too,  it  is  who  in  words  3  of  almost  equal  beauty 
urges  Phaedra  to  yield  to  her  passion  : — 

Thy  love — why  marvel  thereat  ?     'Tis  the  tale 
Of  many.     Wouldst  thou  lose  thy  life  for  love  ? 
Good  sooth  !     A  guerdon  strange,  if  lovers  now 
And  evermore  must  meet  such  penalty  ! 
Who  shall  withstand  the  Cyprian's  rising  flood  ? 

1  Cp.  w.  490  sq. 

3  w.  191-7  (Professor  Murray's  translation).  'w.  439-61. 


212  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Yield  to  her  spell :  she  comes  in  gentleness  ; 
Make  high  thy  pride  and  stand  on  niceties, 
She  flings  thee  pell-mell  into  ignominy. 
Amid  the  sky  she  walks,  amid  the  surge 
Of  the  sea-billows.     All  things  live  from  her. 
The  seed  is  hers  and  hers  the  yearning  throe 
Whence  spring  we  all  that  tread  the  ways  of  earth 
Ask  them  that  con  the  half-forgotten  seers 
Of  elder  time,  and  serve  the  Muse  themselves. 
They  knew  how  Zeus  once  pined  for  Semele, 
How  for  love's  sake  the  Goddess  of  the  Dawn 
Stooped  from  her  radiant  sphere  to  Cephalus 
And  stole  him  to  the  sky.     Yet  these  abide 
In  Heaven,  nor  shun  the  converse  of  the  gods, 
Bowing,  belike,  to  conquering  circumstance. 
And  wilt  not  thou  f     Nay,  if  this  law  thou  spurnest, 
Thy  sire,  when  he  begat  thee,  should  have  writ 
Some  compact  countersigned  by  gods  unknown  ! 

The  nurse  makes  moral  weakness  into  a  very  religion,1 
and  Phaedra's  heart,  one  would  suppose,  is  finally  broken 
when,  to  this  appeal  that  the  gods  themselves  are 
against  her,  is  added  proof  that  man  is  utterly  unable  to 
understand.  "  If  thy  life  had  not  been  in  such  danger," 
says  the  nurse,  "and  thou  hadst  happened  to  be  a  chaste 
woman,  I  should  not  thus  lead  thee  on,"2  and  again  : 
"  Thy  duty,  to  be  sure,  forbids  sin;  but,  as  things  are, 
be  advised  by  me  ".3  This  hideous  purring  is  perhaps 
Phaedra's  bitterest  shame.  No  one  can  understand, 
except  the  prince  who  seems  so  utterly  remote. 
Hippolytus,  after  her  death,  can  say4 

Unchaste  in  passion,  chaste  in  soul  was  she  ; 
Me  hath  my  passionless  purity  dishonoured. 

What  does  Phaedra  herself  say  ?  Is  there  any  reply  to 
the  dreadful  eloquence  of  her  old  attendant  ?  There  is 
only  one  reply  conceivable,  and  she  offers  it:  "  Whatever 
gods  may  do,  or  men  think,  I  must  so  act  as  to  be  able 
to  respect  myself".6  Euripides  insists  that  the  centre 

1  Cp.  w.  474  sq.  :— 

X^ov  8'  ijSpt'fovcr'  •  ov  yap  aXXo  ir\r)v  vftpis 
raS'  «m,  (cpeicrtro)  daip.6va>v  tlvai  0f\nv. 

2  vv.  493-6.  3vv.  507^.  4  vv.  1034  sq. 

8  vv.  415  sqq.  Compare  her  whole  attitude.  Indeed  the  poet  suggests, 
as  at  any  rate  a  collateral  reason  for  her  destruction  of  Hippolytus,  a  fear 
that  he  will  reveal  her  secret  (vv.  689-92). 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  213 

of  ethics  lies  in  man  himself.  For  Phaedra  there  is  no 
soul  on  which  she  can  rely  but  her  own  ;  the  conflict 
must  be  fought  out  within  herself.  The  great  speech l 
in  which  she  tells  her  spiritual  history  to  the  chorus 
without  any  reserve  or  faltering,  is  the  kernel  of  the 
tragedy.  We  realize  how  empty  of  all  comfort  life  can 
be  for  those  who  resolutely  reject  outworn  creeds  and 
turn  to  seek  for  a  better.  Here  is  no  thought,  no  hint, 
of  a  saviour  ;  the  puny  soul  must  struggle  alone  with  an 
uncomprehended  universe.  .^Eschylus  had  found  a 
saviour  in  Zeus  ; 2  Euripides  can  see  no  comfort  in  gods 
who  are  less  virtuous  than  men.  In  this  speech,  too, 
we  note  for  the  first  time  a  portrayal  of  moral  temptation 
and  a  clear  conception  of  conscience.  Sophocles  under- 
stands well  how  duty  can  brace  the  soul  to  heroic  life 
or  death,  but  for  him  the  sanction  of  duty  lies  in  the 
will  of  external  deities.  For  Euripides  conscience  is 
sufficient  as  a  rule  of  conduct. 

Phaedra  is  a  masterpiece  of  characterization.  What- 
ever we  are  to  guess  of  the  earlier 3  picture,  she  is  here 
a  noble  and  spirited  woman,  who  cannot  help  her  in- 
stincts but  who  can  and  will  dispute  their  power  over 
her  life.  She  is,  of  course,  not  perfect — if  she  were  she 
would  be  no  fit  subject  for  drama — and  the  manner  in 
which  Euripides  has  caused  the  action  to  hinge  precisely 
upon  her  weaknesses,  without  lessening  our  respect  and 
affection,  is  one  of  the  most  improving  studies  provided 
by  dramatic  art.  The  little  crevices  of  circumstance 
by  which  wrong-doing — the  destruction  of  Hippolytus — 
creeps  into  her  soul  are  beautifully  indicated.  She  is 
wasted  by  fasting,4  a  state  conducive  to  keener  percep- 
tion and  weaker  will.  She  has  been  brought — without 
any  attempt  on  her  part,  so  surely  she  may  indulge  in  the 
disastrous  joy 5 — from  Athens  to  the  little  town  where 
the  prince  lives.  Her  husband,  as  it  chances,6  is  from 

1  w.  373-430.  a  Agamemnon,  vv.  160-83. 

3  In  the  first  edition  of  the  play,  to  which  it  seems  that  most  of  the 
ancient  strictures  apply. 

4  vv.  135-40.  5  v.  384  :  repifvov  KOKOV, 
6  V.  28l  :  (<8r]fios  &t>  yap  TrjvUf  rvy^avti  %6ovos, 


214  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

home  and  her  life  is  left  empty  for  "  long,  long 
thoughts  ".l  When  she  dwells  upon  her  passion  the 
recollection  of  her  mother's  and  her  sister's  fate  half 
attracts  while  it  half  repels.2  Her  passionate  nature 
insists  on  revealing  some  part  of  her  distress  to  the  keen 
eyes  of  the  nurse,  who  forthwith  joins  the  claims  of  old 
affection 3  to  this  new  secret  pain.  So  it  is  that  she  is 
half-conquered  by  what  she  will  not  do  : — 

Nay,  in  God's  name,  forbear  !     Thy  words  are  vile 
But  wise  withal.     Love  in  my  soul  too  well 
Hath  mined  his  way.     Urge  sin  thus  winningly 
And  passion  sweeps  my  fears  into  the  gulf.4 

But  the  nurse  will  not  forbear,  and  the  comforting 
promise  of  a  charm  which  shall  "still  this  disease,"5  as 
Phaedra  perhaps  half-suspects,6  is  an  undertaking  to  win 
Hippolytus.  The  dread  strain  of  illness,  passion,  and 
shame  have  turned  the  woman  for  a  moment  into  a 
nervous  child.7  Thus  it  comes  about  that  without  dis- 
grace, without  forfeiture  of  her  conscience,  Phaedra 
moves  towards  the  dread  moment 8  at  which  she  hears 
the  outcry  of  Hippolytus.  Then  after  all  the  anguish, 
she  listens  to  his  intolerable  endless  speech !  Such  is 
the  situation  in  which  murder  is  conceived.  In  this  way 
Hippolytus'  a-tofypocrvvr)  has  certainly  been  his  undoing.9 
We  are  told 10  that  this  play  is  a  second  version  of 
the  theme,  and  that  it  was  called  The  Crowned  Hip- 
polytus (from  the  lovely  address  to  Artemis)  to  dis- 
tinguish it  from  the  first,  called  The  Veiled  Hippolytus. 
This  version  (now  lost)  is  said  to  have  contained  "  im- 

1  V.  384  :   paxpai  Tt  \f(T\ai  KOI  cr^oA^,  rtpirvov  KOKOV. 

2vv.  337  sqq.  3v.  328,  etc.  4  vv.  503-6.  5  v.  512. 

8  See  Professor  Murray's  admirable  remarks  (p.  81  of  his  translation). 

7  In  the  trivial  question,  v.  516  :  irortpa  fit  xPt<TT"v  7  irorov  TO  <f)dpnaKoi>  ; 
she  is  dangerously  toying  with  the  proposal.     The  nurse's  reply  is  a  half- 
quaint,    half-heartbreaking  quotation  from   childish  days  when  the  little 
Phaedra  was  querulous  with  her  "  medicine  "  as  now  :  ovaadai,  pr)  padfiv, 

/SouXft,  TtKVOV. 

8  We  notice  incidentally  the  amazing  dexterity  shown  by  the  line  (565) 
in  which  she  announces  her  discovery  :   erty^o-ar',  &  yvi>ai<cey,  e£fip-ydcr/i€$a. 
It  is  a  perfectly  clear  piece  of  Greek  ;  it  is  also  a  series  of  gasps, 

9  V.  i°35«  10  See  the  Greek  Argument, 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  215 

proprieties  "  which  the  poet  afterwards  removed.  This 
refers  to  the  attitude  of  Phaedra,  who  showed  less  re- 
serve in  her  passion  than  in  the  later  play.  She  invoked 
the  moon-goddess,  perhaps  to  aid  her  in  winning  Hip- 
polytus,  and  boldly  pointed  to  the  infidelities  of  Theseus 
as  an  excuse  for  her  own  passion.1  The  reproaches2 
which  Aristophanes  lays  upon  Phaedra  refer  perhaps  only 
to  this  earlier  version,  but  his  most  famous  gibe3  is  upon 
a  line 4  of  our  text, 

f)  yXSxrcr'  o/xcu/io^',  rj  8e  <f>pTiv  dvmftoros, 

"My  tongue  hath  sworn;  my  soul  abides  unsworn." 
This  seems  to  give  us  the  measure  of  the  comic  poet's 
criticism  ;  he  blames  Euripides  for  this  sentiment,  and 
yet  Hippolytus  even  in  his  most  desperate  trouble  will 
not  clear  himself  by  breaking  his  oath.  One  cannot,  how- 
ever, refrain  from  pointing  out  that  even  if  he  had  broken 
it,  Theseus  would  not  have  believed  him,5  and  that  Hip-^ 
polytus  realizes  this.6 

The  HECUBA  ('E/ca/Si])  is  the  next  play  in  order  of 
date ;  it  was  performed  about  425  B.C.7  This  tragedy 
was  enormously  popular  throughout  antiquity,  as  the 
great  volume  of  the  scholia  proves.  It  was  one  of  the 
three  plays — the  others  were  Phcenisscz  and  Orestes — 
used  as  an  Euripidean  reading-book  in  the  Byzantine 
schools. 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Thrace,  where  the  Greeks  are 
encamped  after  the  fall  of  Troy ;  the  background  is  a 
tent  wherein  captive  Trojan  women  are  quartered.  The 
ghost  of  Polydorus,  Priam's  youngest  son,  tells  how  he 
has  been  murdered  by  the  Thracian  king,  Polymestor ; 
he  has  appeared  in  a  dream  to  his  mother  Hecuba.  On 
his  departure,  Hecuba  enters,  and  soon  learns  that  her 

1  In  our  play  the  poet  leaves  his  heroine  silent  on  this  topic,  but  hints 
it  himself  for  us.     See  vv.  151-54,967-70. 

2  Frogs,  1041  ;  Thesm.  497,  547. 

3  Frogs,  101,  1467  ;   Thesm.  275-6.  *  Hipp.  612. 
5  w.  960  sy.,  1076  sq.  *  w.  1060-3. 

7  Aristophanes  in  the  Clouds  (v.  1 165  sq.}  parodies  vv.  ij^sq.  The 
Clouds  was  produced  in  423  B.C.  In  Hecuba,  v.  462,  reference  seems  to  be 
made  to  the  re-establishment  of  the  Delian  festival  in  426  B.C. 


216  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

daughter  Polyxena  is  to  be  sacrificed  at  the  tomb  of 
Achilles.  Odysseus  comes  to  fetch  the  maiden,  who 
welcomes  death  as  a  relief  from  slavery.  Soon  Talthy- 
bius  enters,  summoning  Hecuba  to  bury  Polyxena,  whose 
noble  death  has  filled  the  Greeks  with  admiration. 
Hecuba  sends  a  woman  to  fetch  sea-water  for  the 
obsequies,  and  this  messenger  returns  with  the  body 
of  Polydorus.  Hecuba  exclaims  that  the  murderer  is 
Polymestor :  her  dream  has  told  her.  Agamemnon 
enters,  and  she  induces  him  to  connive  at  her  taking 
vengeance  upon  the  Thracian,  his  ally.  Next  she  sends 
for  Polymestor  and  his  children,  and  (after  a  beautiful 
ode  on  the  last  hours  of  Troy),  they  arrive.  Polymestor 
is  induced  to  go  with  his  little  sons  within  the  tent, 
where  they  are  slaughtered  and  he  himself  blinded.  His 
cries  bring  back  Agamemnon,  who  rejects  the  pleas  of 
Polymestor.  The  Thracian,  in  his  despair,  prophesies  the 
strange  end  both  of  Agamemnon  and  of  Hecuba.  He 
is  dragged  away,  and  the  drama  ends  with  preparations 
for  the  voyage  to  Greece. 

This  tragedy,  let  it  be  said  plainly,  is  on  the  whole 
poor  and  uninteresting.1  It  has  been  frequently  noted, 
for  example,  that  the  plot  is  "episodic,"  that  it  falls  into 
two  divisions,  the  story  of  Polyxena  and  the  vengeance 
upon  Polymestor,  which  are  really  two  small  dramas 

1  Its  popularity  in  Byzantine  times  is  no  bar  to  this  statement.  Prob- 
ably all  the  three  plays,  Hecuba,  Ph&nissa,  and  Orestes,  were  chosen 
because  the  Greek  was  comparatively  easy.  Euripides  was  already  suf- 
ficiently ancient  to  make  this  an  important  consideration. 

Miss  L.  E.  Matthaers  essay  should,  however,  be  read  (Studies  in 
Greek  Tragedy,  pp.  118-57).  With  admirable  insight  and  skill  this 
scholar  seeks  to  show  that  the  Hecuba  is  a  study,  first,  of  "  conventional  " 
justice,  the  claim  of  the  community,  shown  in  the  sacrifice  of  Polyxena ; 
and,  secondly,  of  "natural"  justice,  seen  in  Hecuba's  revenge.  Miss 
Matthaei's  treatment,  however  subjective,  is  trenchant  and  illuminating, 
especially  as  regards  the  psychology  of  Hecuba  and  Odysseus,  the  value 
of  Polyxena's  surrender,  and  the  finale.  But  concerning  the  vital  point, 
lack  of  dramatic  unity,  she  has  little  to  say,  apparently  only  the  sugges- 
tion (p.  140)  that  "the  cumulative  effect  of  finding  the  body  of  Polydorus 
after  having  seen  Polyxena  taken  away  is  the  deciding  factor  ;  otherwise 
the  end  of  the  play  would  have  been  simply  unbelievable  ".  The  strength 
of  this  argument  is  very  doubtful, 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  217 

with  no  genuine  connexion.  To  this  it  has  been  replied 
that  the  spiritual  history  of  Hecuba  supplies  unity  to  the 
whole ;  that  these  episodes  bring  out  her  development 
from  a  victim  into  a  fiend.1  But  this  is  scarcely  satis- 
factory. For  the  two  parts  are  developed  so  completely 
along  their  several  lines,  they  have  so  little  dependence 
upon  one  another,  that  they  could  stand  apart ;  and  that 
is  the  real  test.  Further,  the  poet  himself  is  uneasy. 
He  is  anxious  to  make  some  sort  of  connexion,  but  it  is 
curiously  adventitious.  His  device,  that  the  corpse  of 
Polydorus  is  discovered  by  the  woman  sent  for  water 
wherewith  to  bathe  the  body  of  Polyxena,  has  won  too 
high  praise.  An  attempt  to  strengthen  it,  or  rather  to 
draw  attention  to  its  neatness,  is  supplied  in  the  con- 
versation between  Hecuba  and  Agamemnon:2  "How 
did  he  die  ?  "  "  By  the  hands  of  his  Thracian  host."  .  .  . 
"  Who  brought  his  body  hither  ?  "  .  .  .  "  This  woman. 
She  found  it  upon  the  sea-shore."  "  Was  she  looking  for 
it,  or  busied  with  some  other  task  ?  "  The  last  question  is 
absurd  ;  Agamemnon  has  no  reason  to  ask  it.  Other 
little  hooks,3  less  obtrusive  than  this,  are  provided  here 
and  there  to  connect  the  two  parts.  If  the  play  were  an 
unity  they  would  not  be  needed. 

Again,  the  favourite  charge  against  Euripides,  that 
he  delights  in  quasi-judicial  disputes,  is  brought  in  here 
also.  The  accusation  is  generally  unfair.  Critics  have 
been  so  eager  to  condemn  this  poet  that  they  forget  the 
trial  scene  of  the  Eumenides,  the  altercation  between 
CEdipus  and  Creon  in  the  CEdipus  at  Colonus  and 
various  other  passages  in  the  earlier  tragedians.  If 
a  dispute  occurs  at  all,  it  is  in  accordance  with  the 
genius  of  Greek  tragedy  to  set  it  out  in  formally  opposed 
speeches.  One  might  as  well  complain  of  Hamlet's  solilo- 
quies. But  in  the  Hecuba  there  is  more  than  this.  The 
queen  has  a  gusto  not  merely  for  eloquent  appeals  or 
invective,  but  for  self-conscious  rhetoric,  "  Filled  with 


1  See  Mr.  Hadley's  admirable  Introduction  to  the  play  (pp.  ix-xii). 
3  W.  779  s<?-  3  vv.  428-30,  671,  894-7,  1287  sq. 


218  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

lament,  not  destitute  of  tears,"1  is  abominable.  One  is 
not  surprised  to  learn  that  the  queen  is  interested  in 
professional  teachers  of  rhetoric,2  and  one  remembers 
that  Gorgias,  the  greatest  of  them,  paid  his  first  visit 
to  Athens  a  year  or  two3  before  this  play  was  pro- 
duced. 

The  whole  piece  in  its  tone  and  method  is  far  below 
the  best  of  Euripides'  work.  Certain  things  are 
undoubtedly  excellent — the  famous  chorus*  already 
mentioned,  and  above  all  the  speech  5  of  Polyxena  and 
the  narrative  of  her  death.'  The  whole  work  has  not 
enough  calibre.  The  pathos  has  no  subtlety ;  the 
characterization  is  machine-made  ;  the  style,  though  clear 
and  even  elegant — one  must  allow  that  the  first  speech  7 
of  Polymestor,  as  a  piece  of  conversational  Greek,  is 
unobtrusively  perfect — has  remarkably  few  of  those 
feats8  of  idiom  which  delight  us  elsewhere. 

Polyxena  is  charming,  but  a  slight  sketch  only  com- 
pared with  the  Medea  and  the  Phaedra  who  have  pre- 
ceded her.  Agamemnon  the  cautious  prince,  Odysseus 
the  opportunist,  Polymestor  the  brutally  wicked  barbarian, 
are  characters  whom  dozens  of  Euripides'  contemporaries 
could  have  produced  with  ease.  Talthybius  the  herald, 
still  more  shadowy,  claims  remembrance  by  his  naive 
conceit.9  Hecuba  herself  is  hardly  better.  True,  the 
poet  has  shown  admirably  how  she  progresses  from  weak- 
ness to  frightful  strength  under  the  pressure  of  injustice, 
but  without  any  very  sympathetic  psychology  we  fall 
short  of  genuine  tragedy  and  touch  only  melodrama. 
And  she  is  more  than  a  little  grotesque.  Her  strange 
passion  for  rhetorical  studies  we  have  already  noted. 

lv.  230.  avv.  814-9,  1187-94.  'In  427  B.C. 

4vv.  905  sqq.  5vv.  342-78.  6vv.  518-82. 

7vv.  953-67. 
8  w.  796  sq.  provide  an  example  : — 

(KTtlVf,   TV/Xj3otl  8',   (I  KTaVtlv   f/SouXfTO, 

OVK  f)£ia><r€v,  d\\'  dtpfjitf  ITOVTIOV. 

sNote  his  absurd  insistence  (w.  531-3)  on  his  own  trivial  part  in  the 
sacrifice-scene, 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  219 

She  has,  moreover,  a  taste  for  inopportune  theorizing,1 
even  concerning  theology.2  Her  griefs  themselves  com- 
mand our  respect,  and  she  can  in  one  or  two  flashes  of 
inspiration  speak  of  them  in  language 3  not  unworthy  of 
Shakespeare  himself;  but  there  is  too  much  repetition 
of  merely  melancholy  adjectives,  and  though  there  should 
be  only  one  emotion  in  us  towards  a  woman  who  has 
lost  all  her  children,  we  can  hardly  retain  it  when  she 
reminds  us  that  they  were  fifty  in  number.4 

The  apparition  of  the  murdered  Polydorus  is  an 
interesting  element  in  the  action.  First,  we  view  the 
early  part  of  the  drama  'with  greater  sympathy  for  the 
queen,  knowing  as  we  do  the  new  horror  which  awaits 
her.  Secondly,  it  is  necessary  that  Hecuba  should 
know  how  Polydorus  died.  Though  but  vaguely 
affected  by  the  vision  at  first,5  when  parts  of  it  are  ful- 
filled, she  remembers  and  believes  definitely  in  the  rest, 
and  knows  that  Polymestor  is  the  murderer.6 

The  ANDROMACHE  ("AvSpo/Acx^)  is  perhaps  the  next 7 
extant  play  in  the  order  of  time.  It  was  not  originally 
brought  out  at  Athens.8 

The  action  takes  place  before  the  house  of  Neopto- 
lemus,  prince  of  Phthia  in  Thessaly  ;  at  one  side  of  the 
orchestra  is  the  shrine  of  Thetis.  Andromache  delivers 
the  prologue.  After  the  fall  of  Troy  she  became  the 
prize  of  Neoptolemus  to  whom  she  has  borne  a  son, 
Molottus.  Later  the  prince  married  Hermione,  daughter 
of  the  Spartan  king  Menelaus.  Andromache  has  hidden 
the  child  and  herself  taken  sanctuary  in  the  shrine  of 
Thetis  ;  the  boy's  father  is  from  home,  having  gone  to 

1  vv.   592-603   (the  last  line  being  an  apology  for  the  digression), 

864-7- 

"vv.  799  sqq.  svv.  585  sgg.,  806-8. 

*  v.  421  :  jjfjif^s  8e  TTfvTTjKovTd  y'  tip.fj.opoi  T(Kva>v.  Comment  seems 
obvious  :  "  Actually  enough  children  to  row  a  galley  !  "  (ntv-rrfKovropoy 
vavs). 

5  vv.  68  sqq.  8  w.  702  sqq. 

7  Probably  it  was  composed  during  the  early  years  of  the  Pelopon- 
nesian  war,  as  the  scholiast  suggests  in  a  note  on  v.  445. 

8  Schol,  on  v.  445, 


220  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Delphi  to  ask  Apollo's  pardon  for  demanding  reparation 
for  Achilles'  death.  Andromache  now  sends  a  fellow-slave 
to  ask  the  aid  of  Peleus,  king  of  Phthia  and  her  master's 
grandfather.  Soon  she  is  joined  by  the  chorus,  a  com- 
pany of  Phthian  women  who  sympathize  but  urge  sub- 
mission. Hermione  enters,  and  after  a  spiteful  altercation, 
in  which  she  tries  in  vain  to  make  the  captive  leave  her 
sanctuary,  departs  with  threats.  Menelaus  enters,  lead- 
ing Molottus  ;  he  offers  Andromache  her  choice  :  will 
she  submit  to  death,  or  see  the  boy  slain  ?  Andromache 
gives  herself  up,  whereupon  Menelaus  announces  that, 
while  she  must  die,  Molottus  lies  at  the  mercy  of  Her- 
mione. By  this  treachery  Andromache  is  goaded  into 
the  most  bitter  invective  to  be  found  in  Euripides.  The 
chorus  dwell  upon  the  folly  of  domestic  irregularities 
such  as  those  of  Neoptolemus.  Next  Menelaus  leads 
forth  Andromache  and  Molottus  for  death,  when  Peleus 
hurries  in  and  releases  them.  After  a  violent  quarrel 
Menelaus  throws  up  his  daughter's  cause  and  departs. 
Peleus  leads  the  captives  away  while  the  chorus  sing  his 
youthful  exploits.  From  the  palace  comes  Hermione's 
nurse  :  deserted  by  her  father  and  dreading  her  husband's 
vengeance  the  princess  is  seeking  to  destroy  herself. 
Next  moment  Hermione  rushes  out  in  distraction  and 
the  nurse  is  attempting  to  calm  her  when  Orestes  enters, 
explaining  that  he  has  called  to  inquire  after  his  cousin 
Hermione.  She  begs  him  to  take  her  away  to  Menelaus 
before  her  husband  returns.  Orestes  agrees,  reminding 
her  that  she  has  in  the  past  been  betrothed  to  him  ;  now 
Neoptolemus  shall  pay  for  his  insults  by  death  at  Delphi. 
After  their  departure  the  chorus  sing  of  the  gods  who 
built  but  abandoned  Troy,  and  of  Orestes'  vengeance 
upon  Clytsemnestra.  Peleus  returns,  having  heard  of 
Hermione's  flight.  In  a  moment  arrives  a  messenger 
who  tells  how  Neoptolemus  has  been  murdered  by 
Delphians  at  the  instigation  of  Orestes.  The  body  is 
borne  in,  and  Peleus  laments  over  it  until  interrupted  by 
the  goddess  Thetis,  his  bride  of  long  ago.  She  comforts 
him  with  a  promise  of  immortality.  Andromache  is  to 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES 

marry  Helenus,  king  of  Molossia,1  and  her  son  is  to  be 
ancestor  of  a  dynasty  in  that  land. 

Certain  remarkable  difficulties  in  the  plot  must 
be  faced. 

First  is  the  breakdown  of  Menelaus  in  the  presence 
of  Peleus.  The  first  half  of  the  play  has  exhibited 
his  unswerving  resolve  to  destroy  Andromache  and 
her  child.  Every  conceivable  argument  save  one  has 
been  addressed  to  him  in  vain.  That  one  argument 
is  physical  compulsion,  and  Peleus  certainly  does  not 
offer  it.2  After  a  storm  of  mutual  abuse  the  Spartan 
withdraws  from  the  whole  situation,  muttering  an  excuse 
which  is  scarcely  meant  to  be  taken  seriously  :  he  is 
in  a  hurry  to  chastise  an  unfriendly  state.3  He  goes 
just  far  enough  to  embitter  his  enemies  to  the  utmost  and 
not  far  enough  to  redeem  his  threats  ;  and  he  retires 
without  a  word  to  his  daughter  after  committing  her  to  a 
deeply  dangerous  project.  Menelaus  has  faults,  but  crass 
stupidity  is  not  one  of  them  ;  on  the  contrary  he  is 
reviled  as  the  type  of  base  cunning.  Why,  then,  does 
he  act  with  such  utter  futility  at  a  crisis  which  anyone 
could  have  foreseen  ? 

In  the  second  place,  when  was  Neoptolemus 
murdered  ?  Orestes  declares  that  the  prince  will  be 
slain  at  Delphi,  and  at  once  departs  with  Hermione. 
After  a  choric  song  Peleus  comes  back,  and  almost  at 
once  receives  the  news  of  his  grandson's  death.  When 
Orestes  utters  his  prophecy  the  messenger  from  Delphi 
can  hardly  be  more  than  a  mile  from  the  house.  Has 
he  already  committed  the  murder  as  a  prelude  to  an 
innocent  and  irrelevant  pilgrimage  to  Dodona  ?  And, 
if  so,  why  does  he  reveal,  or  rather  not  reveal,  the 

1  Her  son,  who  is  not  given  a  name  in  the  play,  no  doubt  obtains  it 
from  this  prophecy. 

2  Mention  of  such  a  conflict  naturally  occurs  (w.  588  sy.)  in  the  heat 
of  their  quarrel,  but  it   comes  to  nothing.     That  the   old  king  has  no 
military  following    seems  certain  from  the  silence  of  both  parties.     See 
particularly  vv.  752  sqq. 

3  w.  732  sqq.     Note  the  stammering  repetition  of  ns — he  cannot  even 
suggest  a  name. 


222  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

fact  ?  And  why  has  he  risked  himself  in  Phthia  when 
the  news  of  his  crime  may  at  any  moment  be  revealed  ?  l 

Thirdly,  there  is  a  grave  difficulty  in  the  structure, 
independent  of  Menelaus'  conduct  and  the  dating  of 
Orestes'  crime.  The  play  seems  to  fall  into  two  halves 
with  but  a  slight  connexion — the  plight  of  Andromache 
and  the  woes  of  Neoptolemus'  house. 

The  late  Dr.  Verrall's  theory  a  of  the  play  explains 
all  these  things  together.  Menelaus  has  come  to  see 
that  it  is  to  his  interest  that  his  daughter  should  be  the 
wife  of  the  Argive  rather  than  of  the  Phthiote  prince. 
He  and  Orestes  therefore  concoct  a  plan  to  this  end. 
Two  things  must  be  achieved  :  Neoptolemus  must  be 
removed,  and  Hermione,  passionately  as  she  loves 
her  lord,  must  be  induced  to  accept  his  assassin.  The 
cunning  of  Menelaus  fastens  upon  the  failings  of  his 
son-in-law  as  the  path  to  success.  First,  he  has  offended 
the  Delphians,  and  thus  Orestes  finds  it  easy  to  compass 
his  death.  Second,  he  has  caused  bitterness  in  his 
own  house  by  his  connexion  with  Andromache.  Mene- 
laus, while  Orestes  is  at  Delphi,  urges  Hermione  into 
action  which  her  jealousy  approves  but  which  her 
intellect  (when  it  is  allowed  to  speak)  must  and  does 
condemn.  The  Spartan  has  no  intention  of  killing 
the  captives,  but  he  sees  to  it  that  Hermione  is,  in 
the  eyes  of  Peleus  and  his  subjects,  irretrievably  com- 
mitted to  such  an  intention,  which  will  beyond  doubt 
incense  Neoptolemus  most  bitterly — or  would,  were 
he  still  alive  as  Hermione  supposes.  Then,  when 
she  has  committed  herself,  he  calmly  bows  to  the  out- 
burst of  Peleus  and  leaves  her  ready  to  snatch  at  any 

J  It  may  be  answered  that  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  time  consumed  by 
the  choric  ode  is  conventionally  supposed  long  enough  to  allow  for  the 
alleged  synchronous  action.  But  how  much  time  is  required  ?  Orestes 
is  to  place  Hermione  in  Menelaus'  care,  journey  to  Delphi,  and  arrange 
his  plot  ;  then  the  slaves  are  to  carry  the  body  home.  This  certainly 
means  three  days  ;  one  would  expect  a  week.  Thus  Peleus  only  hears 
of  Hermione's  departure  three  days  (perhaps  a  week)  after  it  has  occurred. 
Is  this  credible  ?  See  also  the  conversation  between  him  and  the  chorus 
which  implies  that  the  news  has  reached  him  within  an  hour  or  two. 

s  Four  Plays  of  Euripides ;  pp.  1-42. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  223 

hope  in  her  hysterical  despair.  At  this  moment, 
carefully  awaited  by  the  plotters,  Orestes  appears. 
He  has  already  murdered  Neoptolemus,  and  is  now 
ready  to  take  Hermione  away.  But  this  is  not  enough. 
She  must  appear  to  come  by  her  own  suggestion,  and 
it  must  appear  that  she  has  known  at  the  moment  of 
her  elopement  what  has  happened  at  Delphi.  As  she 
hurries  from  the  scene  he  utters,  apparently  in  consola- 
tion of  her  (though  really  she  is  out  of  hearing),  so  that 
it  may  lodge  in  the  minds  of  the  chorus,  a  prophecy 
of  Neoptolemus'  fate.  Later,  she  is  to  be  reminded 
by  her  father  and  her  new  suitor  how  completely  she 
is  involved  in  suspicion  of  complicity.  Thus  she  will 
be  thrown  into  the  arms  of  Orestes,  and  whatever 
blame  there  is  will  be  laid  upon  Delphi.1 

This  view  should  in  its  essentials  be  adopted. 
Every  dramatist  commits  faults  ;  but  these  apparent 
faults  in  the  Andromache  prove  too  much.  They  tend 
to  show  not  that  Euripides  is  here  inferior  in  con- 
struction and  psychology  to  Sophocles,  but  that  he 
is  insane.  Few  readers  could  compose  a  speech  like 
that  of  Andromache  beginning  8>  iraa-iv  dvOptoiroio-iv 
ex^tcrrot  /3/ooraij/,  or  like  the  messenger's  narrative.  But 
we  could  all  manage  the  exit  of  Menelaus  better.  There 
is  one  great  general  objection  to  Verrall's  theory.  Is 
it  not  much  too  subtle  ?  If  readers  have  always  missed 
the  point,  would  not  spectators  do  so  even  more 
certainly  ?  Verrall,  in  answer,  points  to  a  passage  in 
the  Greek  Argument :  TO  Se  Spa/xa  ivv  StvTepuv,  which 
he  takes  to  mean  "  this  play  is  one  of  the  sequels  ".2 
He  believes  that  the  audience  had  a  sufficient  know- 
ledge of  the  earlier  part  of  the  story  to  follow  the 
Andromache  with  no  perplexity.  Whether  this  know- 
ledge was  given  by  an  earlier  play  of  Euripides  is 
not  of  course  certain,  but  may  be  regarded  as  likely. 

We  next  note  a  feature  of  equal  importance — the 
atmosphere.  Every  reader  observes  strange  anachron- 

1  w.  1239  sqq.  (AfX^oiy  ovftSor). 

a  It  is  usually  supposed  to  mean  "  one  of  the  second-rate  plays  ". 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 

isms  of  sentiment  and  allusion — Hermione's  outburst l 
against  women  who  destroy  the  confidence  between 
husband  and  wife,  Peleus'  comments  on  Lacedaemonian 
society,2  and  the  like,  which  have  no  relevance  to  the 
"  Homeric  age  "  of  the  Trojan  war.  But  the  whole 
tone  of  the  play  is  unheroic ;  even  if  these  special 
features  were  removed  it  would  remain  quite  unlike 
a  Sophoclean  drama.  Euripides  has,  in  fact,  written 
a  play  about  his  own  generation  with  a  definite  purpose. 
He  takes  stories  from  myths  as  the  foundation  of  his 
plays,  but  his  interest  is  in  his  own  time.  In  spite  of 
"thy  mother  Helen"  and  "the  hapless  town  of  the 
Phrygians,"  his  work  concerns  essentially  fifth-century 
Athenians.  Hence  the  almost  complete  absence  of 
poetic  colour,  which  is  only  found  in  the  conventional 
lyrics  and  the  goddess  of  the  epilogue,  who  is  no  more 
in  tune  with  the  rest  of  the  piece  than  a  fairy-queen 
would  be  at  the  close  of  A  Dolls  House.  His  chief 
concern  is  the  danger  to  family  life  involved  in  the 
practice  of  slave-holding.  Neoptolemus  loses  his  life, 
and  Hermione  consents  to  the  wreck  of  her  own 
happiness,  simply  because  of  Andromache's  position  in 
the  home.  She  is  the  fulcrum  which  the  astute  villains 
employ  ;  without  her  Hermione  would  never  have 
been  manageable. 

In  harmony  with  this  realistic  spirit  is  the  character- 
drawing.  None  of  the  personages  is  of  heroic  stature, 
but  all  are  amazingly  real,  however  disagreeable.  The 
two  conspirators,  Menelaus  and  Orestes,  of  course,  do  not 
reveal  their  natures  plainly.  The  latter,  as  far  as  this 
incident  alone  is  concerned,  might  strike  one  as  almost 
featureless ;  but  there  cling  to  him  significant  little 
fragments  from  the  earlier  history  of  Hermione.  A 
sinister  faithfulness  actuates  him.  In  spite  of  his  repulse 
he  has  not  forgotten  his  affection  for  Hermione,  not  even 
her  last  words  of  renunciation.3  Nor  has  he  ceased  to 

Jw.  929-53.  8vv.  595-601. 

3  v.  964  :  T)\6ov  8t  <ras  p.tv  ov  crtjSaiv  eVioToAd?,  art.  There  can  be 
hardly  a  doubt  that  these  words  refer  to  their  parting  before  her  marriage, 
when  she  forbade  him  to  see  her  again. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  225 

brood  on  the  insults  of  Neoptolemus — perhaps  nothing 
in  the  play  is  more  effective  than  the  gloomy  triumph 
with  which  he  flings  back  the  hated  word  :  "and  the 

matricide   shall   teach    thee " Menelaus,   as   a 

study  in  successful  villainy  combined  with  the  domestic 
virtues,  is  quite  perfect  in  his  kind  ;  ces peres  de  famille 
sont  capables  de  tout.  But  it  is  upon  the  three  victims, 
Hermione,  Andromache,  and  Peleus,  that  the  poet  has 
lavished  his  skill  most  notably.  Each  has  precisely  the 
virtues  and  the  failings  which  are  fit  to  make  them 
answer  with  the  precision  of  machinery  to  each  string 
pulled  by  the  Spartan  diplomatist.  Peleus  may  be 
relied  upon  to  provide  Menelaus  with  an  excuse  for 
retiring  when  he  wishes,  and  to  utter  wild  language 
which  can  be  used  to  prove  that  he  is  responsible  for 
Hermione's  flight.1  Andromache,  earning  and  receiving 
our  pity  for  her  past  woes  and  her  present  anguish,  yet 
alienates  us  by  her  arrogance  and  a  certain  metallic 
brutality  in  repartee  and  invective  which  again  are 
invaluable  to  the  men  whose  puppet  she  is.  That  she 
should  not  cower  before  Hermione  or  her  father  is  natural, 
but  that  is  not  the  point ;  her  trampling  tactlessness 2  is 
a  positive  disease.  She  is  indeed  (except  in  her  love 
for  Molottus)  as  callous  as  Menelaus.  This  is  a  point 
of  absolutely  fundamental  import.  That  interview 
early  in  the  play,  which  might  have  been  priceless  to 
both  women,  ends  only  in  the  hopeless  embitterment 
of  Hermione.  The  latter  is  the  best-drawn  character 
of  all.  Swayed  by  strong  primitive  impulses,  jealousy 
and  fear,  without  any  balance  of  mind  or  emotion, 
curiously  liable  to  accept  the  domination  of  a  stronger 
personality,  she  is  fatally  suited  to  the  machinations  of 
her  father.  When  she  first  appears,  it  is  fairly  plain 
that  she  has  come  to  suggest  a  compromise  to  Andro- 
mache.3 What  she  wishes  is  not  blood,  but  servility. 
Spiteful  and  vulgar,  she  cannot  forgive  the  captive  for 
the  effortless  dignity  which  she  has  inherited  from  Trojan 

1  vv.  639,  708  sgq.     Cp.  Verrall,  p.  38. 

*\Eg.  vv.i  229  sq.  8  Cp.  Verrall,  pp.  29  sy. 

'5 


226  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

kings.  Hers  is  no  vision  of  a  murdered  rival :  how  petty 
yet  how  horribly  natural  it  is — she  wishes  to  see  Andro- 
mache scrubbing  the  floor ! l  But  vulgar  and  spiteful 
as  she  is,  the  princess  can  be  wrought  upon,  as  the  later 
part  of  the  action  shows,  and  if  only  to  self-respect 
Andromache  had  added  tact  and  sympathy  Hermione 
would  have  been  her  passionate  friend  before  thirty 
lines  had  been  spoken.  The  pathos  of  the  scene  lies 
above  all  in  the  misunderstanding  which  pits  the  two 
women  against  one  another,  where  they  should  have 
combined  against  the  callous  craft  which  was  using  them 
both  for  the  ends  of  politics. 

The  deities  whom  we  find  in  this  play  need  detain 
us  only  a  moment.  Thetis  is  no  more  than  sweetening 
for  the  popular  taste.  Soothing  and  beautiful  as  are 
her  consolations  to  the  aged  sufferer,  such  a  personage 
has  no  real  concern  with  a  drama  so  utterly  secular. 
As  for  Apollo,  it  is  here  plainer  than  usual  that  his  name 
is  nothing  but  a  convenient  short  term  for  the  great 
priestly  organization  at  Delphi.  That  there  is  a  genuine 
divine  person  who  has  aided  Orestes  and  punished 
Neoptolemus  we  cannot  believe.  The  only  touch  of 
religious  awe  to  be  found  lies  in  the  messenger's  report. 
When  the  assassins  are  fleeing  before  their  courageous 
victim,  "  from  the  midst  of  the  shrine  some  one  raised 
an  awful  voice  whereat  the  hair  stood  up,  and  rallied 
the  host  again  to  fight  ".2  It  is  this  same  speaker, 
however,  who  thus  sums  up  his  account  of  the  whole 
event  :  "And  thus  hath  he  that  gives  oracles  to  others, 
he  who  for  all  mankind  is  the  judge  of  righteousness, 
thus  hath  he  entreated  the  son  of  Achilles  who  offered 
him  amends.  Like  a  man  that  is  base  hath  he  remem- 
bered an  ancient  grudge.  How,  then,  can  he  be  wise  ?  " 
To  the  simple  Thessalian  confronted  for  the  first  time 

1  v.  1 66.  This  is  the  type  of  drama  at  which  Sophocles  shook  his 
head  and  which  Aristophanes  reviled.  But  it  must  have  made  many  a 
slave-holding  citizen  in  the  theatre  suddenly  raise  his  brows  and  fall 
to  thinking  of  words  let  drop  an  hour  ago  at  home. 

2w.  1147  sgq.  :  The  someone  of  course  might  be  anyone.  The 
speaker  elects  to  assume  that  the  god  is  actually  present. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  227 

with  doubts  of  Olympian  justice,  such  phrasing  is  natural. 
For  Euripides  the  conclusion  is  that  Apollo  does  not 
exist  at  all.  "  Apollo  "  does  not  take  vengeance  upon 
the  blasphemer  at  the  time  of  his  offence,  but  waits 
unaccountably  till  his  second  visit,  when  he  comes  to 
make  amends  and  when  by  an  accident,  fortunate  for 
the  god,  a  conspiracy  of  villainous  men  happens  to  make 
his  enemy  their  victim.1 

In  keeping  with  all  this  is  the  literary  tone  of  the 
work.  The  lyrics  are  of  little  interest  to  a  reader, 
though  one  2  of  them  markedly  sums  up  the  situation 
and  forces  home  the  moral.  For  the  rest,  the  dialogue 
is  utterly  unheroic  and  unpoetical  but  splendidly  vigorous, 
terse,  and  idiomatic  ;  in  this  respect  the  Andromache 
is  equal  to  the  best  work  of  Euripides.  Could  any- 
thing of  its  kind  be  more  perfect  than  the  first  speech 
of  Hermione3  —  this  mixture  of  pathetic  heart-hunger, 
of  childish  snobbery  and  petulance,  this  terribly  familiar 
instinct  to  cast  in  the  teeth  of  the  unfortunate  precisely 
those  things  for  which  one  formerly  envied  them,  these 
scraps  of  ludicrously  inaccurate  slander  against  "  bar- 
barians" picked  up  from  the  tattle  of  gossiping  slaves, 
and  the  heavy  preachments  about  "  the  marriage- 
question  "  which  cry  aloud  their  origin  from  the  lips  of 
Menelaus?  In 


8fl  <r  dvrl  rwv  irpiv  oA/3i'o>i/ 
TTT^^ai  TaireivTjv,  Trpotnrfcrdv  T'  ffjMv  yovv, 
craipfiv  Tf  Scoria  roifjiov,  «K  •^pva'rjKa.TOiv 
rev)(((i)v  X*pt  (TTTfipovcrav  'A^eXaiov  Spocrov, 
yva>vai  ff  Iv    fl  yr/s,* 

the  last  phrase  is  marvellous.  The  very  sound  and 
fall  of  the  words,  with  the  two  long  monosyllables,  can 
only  be  described  as  a  verbal  box  on  the  ears.  Observe 
too  the  great  speech  5  of  Andromache.  In  the  lines 


vvv  8"  ts  yvvaiKa  yopyos  ojrXiVrjs 
KTciveis  p  '  a-rronTfiv  ',  a>s  ddtaTTtvrov  ye  ere 
ijata  rrjs  (fj,f)s  KOI  rralBa  o~f]v, 


1  w.  1002  syg.y  especially  1004.  2  vv.  464-94. 

3vv.   147-80.  *vv.  164^^.  6vv.  445-63. 


228  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

one  can  hear  the  words  gurgling  in  her  throat  before 
they  issue  in  speech  ;  at  the  end  she  is  positively 
hissing.  Peleus,  too,  ineffectual  as  he  may  be  in  argu- 
ment, is  a  master  of  pungent  rhetoric.1 

For  readers  who  admire  exclusively  the  Sophoclean 
type  of  play,  the  Andromache  is  a  painful  experience  to 
be  forgotten  as  soon  as  possible.  For  any  who  find 
interest  in  the  behaviour  of  ordinary  beings  at  a  great 
testing  moment,  this  work  is  an  endless  delight. 

The  HERCULES  FuRENS2  or  Mad  Heracles  ('Hpa/cA/rj? 
Mcuvo/xei/os)  is  perhaps  the  next  play  in  order  of  time. 
Most  critics  place  it  about  the  year  420  B.C.  or  a  little 
earlier  ;  the  chief  reason  for  this  is  the  celebrated  chorus 
about  old  age — it  is  natural  supposition  that  the  poet 
had  recently  passed  beyond  the  military  age,  and  so 
would  now  be  just  over  sixty. 

The  scene  is  laid  before  the  house  of  Heracles  at 
Thebes.  Amphitryon,  reputed  father  of  the  hero,  ex- 
plains the  situation.  Heracles,  leaving  his  wife  Megara 
and  his  three  sons  with  Amphitryon,  has  departed  to 
Hades  in  quest  of  Cerberus.  In  his  absence  one 
Lycus  has  seized  the  throne  and  intends  to  murder 
Heracles'  family.  Megara  would  submit,  but  Am- 
phitryon still  hopes  for  Heracles'  return.  Certain  aged 
Thebans,  who  form  the  chorus,  arrive,  followed  by 
Lycus  who,  after  sneers  at  Heracles,  orders  his  hench- 
men to  burn  his  victims  in  their  house.  Megara  begs 
of  Lycus  that  they  be  given  time  to  array  themselves 
for  death.  He  consents,  and  the  sufferers  retire. 
Lycus  departs,  and  soon  the  sad  procession  returns. 
Suddenly  Heracles  himself  enters.  He  tells  that  he 
has  brought  back  Cerberus  and  released  Theseus,  King 
of  Athens,  from  the  lower  world  ;  he  promises  to  de- 
stroy Lycus  and  goes  within.  A  splendid  ode  laments 

1  Eg.  w.  632  sqq. 

2  Arrangement    (according  to    Croiset)  :    protagonist,    Amphitryon, 
Madness ;    deuteragonist,    Megara,    Iris,    Theseus ;    tritagonist,    Lycus, 
Heracles,  messenger.     Of  course  the  dead  bodies  are  lay  figures.     Other 
arrangements  are  possible. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  229 

the  weakness  of  old  age  but  glorifies  the  Muses.  Lycus 
returns,  enters  the  house,  and  is  slain  ;  the  chorus  greet 
his  yells  with  delight  and  hail  Heracles  as  now  proved 
the  son  of  Zeus.  Suddenly  Iris  and  Frenzy  sweep 
down  from  the  sky,  sent  by  Hera  to  drive  Heracles 
mad.  Frenzy  herself  is  reluctant,  but  enters  the  house, 
and  the  chorus  raise  cries  of  horror,  amid  which  the 
house  totters  in  ruin.  A  messenger  relates  how 
Heracles,  after  slaying  Lycus,  has  been  seized  with  mad- 
ness and  destroyed  his  wife  and  children.  The  eccyclema 
shows  the  hero  sunk  in  stupor.  He  awakes  and,  realizing 
his  situation,  meditates  suicide,  but  Theseus  arrives  and 
wins  him  back  to  courage  ;  after  terrible  outbursts 
against  Heaven  he  departs  to  live  with  Theseus  in 
Athens. 

After  a  cursory  reading  of  this  play  one's  impres- 
sions are  doubtful.  Many  features  excite  warm  admira- 
tion, such  as  the  superb  lyric l  on  old  age,  the  speeches 2 
of  Megara  about  her  fatherless  boys,  Heracles'  replies3 
to  Theseus ;  even  the  wrangle  between  Lycus  and 
Amphitryon  is  full  of  idiomatic  vigour.4  But  to  be 
blunt,  what  is  the  play  about?  It  works  up  to  a  climax 
in  the  deliverance  of  Amphitryon  and  his  kin,  and  then 
begins  again.  Long  before  the  close  we  have  for- 
gotten Lycus.  We  feel  that  the  play  is  structureless,  or 
(which  is  worse)  that  it  falls  so  clearly  into  two  dramas 
that  we  cannot  view  it  as  a  single  piece  of  art.  But  if 
we  seriously  seek  for  unity,  we  naturally  look  for  it  in 
the  fortunes  of  Heracles  himself.  This  granted,  we 
shall  expect  to  find  that  the  incident  which  in  a  bare 
summary  seems  to  disjoint  the  whole  is  specially  treated. 
Looking  then  at  the  incursion  of  Lycus,  we  find  that  at 
every  moment  the  events  are  considered  from  the  point  of 
view  of  Heracles,  in  terms  of  his  actions,  and  the  senti- 
ments which  cling  to  his  personality.  We  are  only 
prevented  from  seeing  this  at  first  by  the  modern  sup- 
position that  the  culmination  of  a  tragedy  is  the  death  of 

1w.  637-700.  aw.  70-9,  460-89. 

3vv.  1255-1310,  1340-93.  4vv.  140-235- 


230  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

a  leading  person,  not  a  spiritual  crisis.  The  discussion 
between  Amphitryon  and  Megara  about  instant  submis- 
sion is  dominated  by  despair  of  the  hero's  return  in  the 
latter's  mind  and  by  hope  of  it  in  the  former's.  As  soon  as 
Lycus  arrives,  he  asks  :  "  What  hope,  what  defence  find 
ye  against  death  ?  Believe  ye  that  the  father  of  these 
lads,  he  who  lies  in  Hades,  will  return?"  Whereupon 
he  proceeds  to  a  long  tirade  in  abuse  of  the  hero,  and 
Amphitryon's  even  more  garrulous  response  deals 
almost  solely  with  his  son's  achievements  and  the  grati- 
tude which  he  merits  from  Thebes  and  Greece.  As  the 
doomed  party  go  indoors  the  old  man  reminds  Heaven 
itself  of  the  help  it  owes  to  Heracles,  and  the  following 
lyrics  are  an  elaborate  chronicle  of  his  marvellous 
exploits.  Finally,  when  at  point  to  die,  Megara  in  a 
beautifully  natural  manner  turns  her  farewell  to  her  sons 
into  a  painful  memory  of  the  plans  which  their  father 
used  to  make  for  them.  In  this  way  the  danger  of  his 
family  is  considered  as  a  test  of  Heracles'  powers  and 
greatness.  Will  he  make  good  the  promise  of  his  past 
glories  ?  Will  he  return  and  free  them  from  Lycus  ? 

Dr.  Verrall l  follows  this  line  of  thought,  giving  to 
it  far  greater  precision  and  colour.  He  believes  that 
the  subject  of  this  play  is  the  miraculous  tone  investing 
the  traditional  stories  about  Heracles.  According  to 
popular  belief  in  the  poet's  day,  Heracles  was  a  son  of 
Zeus  ;  he  performed  many  exploits  which  were  definitely 
superhuman,  culminating  in  a  descent  to  Hades  and 
return  therefrom.  These  stories  are  untrue.  The  play 
indicates  this  simply  and  directly,  giving,  however,  most 
attention  to  the  method  by  which  they  won  credence. 
In  a  primitive  civilization,  when  men  had  not  yet  at- 
tained to  clear  thinking,  remarkable  but  human  feats 
like  those  of  Heracles  were  extolled  as  miraculous  by  the 
uncritical.  Such  are  Amphitryon  and  the  chorus,  who 
when  challenged  by  Lycus  are  capable  only  of  violent 
reiteration  of  their  belief,  but  offer,  and  can  offer,  no 

1  four  Plays  of  Euripides,  pp.  134-98. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  231 

proof  that  the  miracles  happened.  It  is  a  curious 
symptom  of  the  former's  vague  credulity  that  while 
loving  and  defending  Heracles  as  his  own  son,  he  yet 
claims  l  the  help  of  Zeus  on  the  ground  that  the  god  is 
himself  Heracles'  father.  The  Theban  elders  join  u  in 
this  irrational  belief — as  soon  as  it  appears  that  the  divine 
parentage  is  established  by  the  return  from  Hades, 
which  even  if  true  would  of  course  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  question.  It  is  in  such  minds  as  this  that  belief 
in  the  miraculous  life  of  Heracles  first  sprang  up.  But 
this  belief  rests  largely  upon  the  accounts  of  his  ad- 
ventures given  by  Heracles  himself;  thus  we  come  to 
the  heart  of  the  tragedy,  the  mental  condition  of  the 
hero. 

Near  the  end  he  exclaims  against  the  consolations  of 
Theseus  :  "  Alas  !  such  words  as  thine  are  too  trivial  for 
my  sorrows.  I  think  not  that  the  gods  love  unlawful 
unions,  and  that  they  put  chains  upon  one  another  is  a 
belief  I  never  held  nor  will  I  ever.  God,  if  he  be  God, 
in  truth  needs  naught.  These  are  but  poets'  wretched 
tales."  3  Plainly,  the  sober  and  reasonable  speech  which 
begins  thus  repudiates  the  highly-coloured  but  pernicious 
stories  of  tradition  to  which  Theseus  has  just  appealed. 
Heracles  believes  in  one  God  utterly  above  human 
weaknesses.  Then  what  of  Zeus'  love  of  Alcmena,  the 
jealousy  of  Hera,  the  whole  basis  of  his  suffering  as  con- 
ceived by  the  orthodox  ?  And  what  of  his  own  semi- 
divine  nature,  the  foundation  again  of  his  superhuman 
deeds?  They  are  delusions.  Heracles  is  no  demi-god  ; 
his  exploits,  however  great  and  valuable,  are  in  no  sense 
miraculous.  This  view,  moreover,  is  precisely  that 
which  we  ought  to  gain  from  the  early  part  of  the 
drama.  Lycus  is  no  doubt  an  insolent  bully,  but  would 
certainly  not  brave  annihilation  (whether  at  the  hands 
of  Zeus  or  of  his  son)  by  slaughtering  a  demi-god's 
family.  That  he  acts  so  proves  that  he  does  not  believe 
in  the  divine  parentage  of  Heracles ;  and  the  support  so 

1  w.  339  sgg.,  etc.  8  w.  798  sqq.  *  w.  1340-6. 


232  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

readily  given  by  Thebes  to  his  policy  shows  as  plainly 
that  to  the  mass  of  citizens  no  real  proofs  of  superhuman 
nature  have  been  offered.  In  brief,  the  actions  and 
language  of  every  one  in  the  play  except  Heracles  him- 
self, Amphitryon,  and  the  chorus — of  every  one,  includ- 
ing Theseus  and  even  Megara,  imply  that  in  this  play 
Heracles  is  indeed  a  person  of  note,  but  an  "eminent 
man  "  of  no  very  startling  eminence. 

But  the  hero  himself  long  before  this  repudiation  of 
"  poets'  wretched  tales  "  has  himself  given  them  authority. 
He  tells  his  father  that  in  truth  he  has  visited  Hades, 
dragged  Cerberus  thence,  and  rescued  Theseus.  At 
many  places l  in  the  drama  he  refers  without  misgiving 
or  query  to  legendary  monsters  which  he  has  quelled, 
and  to  his  safe  return  from  Hades.  This  inconsistency, 
according  to  Dr.  Verrall,  is  the  root  of  the  drama. 
Heracles  suffers  from  a  growing  tendency  to  madness  ; 
in  his  sane  moods  he  knows  that  all  his  story  is  human,  all 
the  nobler  for  its  humanity,  but  in  his  dark  hours  he  accepts 
the  vulgar  splendours  which  rumour  throws  round  his 
adventures,  at  such  times  lending  nascent  myth  the  sup- 
port of  his  own  false  witness.  The  tragedy  of  his  life 
has  been  this  mental  distemper,  which  has  finally  caused 
him  to  destroy  his  wife  and  children.  It  appears  in 
dreadful  paroxysms  throughout  the  first  speech  which  he 
addresses  to  Theseus — first  an  attempt  to  account  for 
his  murderous  outbreak  by  an  account  of  purely  human 
events  ;  then  inconsistently  a  reference  to  Zeus'  father- 
hood and  the  attempt  of  Hera  upon  his  infant  life, 
followed  by  a  splendidly  vigorous  catalogue  of  legendary 
deeds,  Typhos,  the  giants,  and  the  rest,  culminating  with 
despairing  comments  on  his  hopeless  guilt  and  on  the 
complete  victory  of  Hera  ;  then  he  suddenly  rends  the 
goddess  with  his  scorn  :  "to  such  a  deity  who  would 
pray  ? — for  a  jealous  quarrel  she  has  destroyed  the  guilt- 
less benefactor  of  Greece". 

Two  important  details  should  be  noted  in  connexion 

1  Especially  vv.  1269  sqq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  233 

with  this  theory.  First  the  apparition *  of  Iris  and 
Frenzy  seems  to  overthrow  it  utterly  by  a  demonstra- 
tion in  presence  of  the  audience  that  Heracles'  afflictions 
are  caused  by  Hera.  But  the  past  scene,  before  ever 
Frenzy  arrives,  has  shown  the  hero,  if  not  mad,  yet  not 
in  full  possession  of  his  senses.2  Moreover,  she  is  not 
seen  by  him  at  the  moment  when  he  goes  mad,  yet,  if 
the  chorus  see  her,  a  fortiori she  should  be  visible  when 
attacking  her  victim  himself ;  again  the  scene  in  which 
the  fiend  herself  shows  kind-hearted  scruples,  is  ludi- 
crous. These  personages  ( Verrall  suggests)  are  a  dream 
beheld  by  a  member  of  the  chorus  who  has  been 
impressed  by  what  he  has  already  seen  of  Heracles' 
malady.  This  is  proved  by  an  absence  of  allusion  to  the 
event  afterwards  when  the  fatal  incident  is  discussed, 
and  when  silence  is  incredible.  The  aged  man  (or  men) 
will  gradually  remember  the  dream  afterwards ;  this  is 
another  way  in  which  stories  like  that  of  Hera's  ven- 
geance obtain  currency. 

The  second  point  arises  from  the  conversation  be- 
tween Theseus  and  his  friend  when  clearly  sane.  Does 
he  confirm  the  story  of  the  visit  to  Hades  ?  Now, 
Heracles  and  he  several  times  refer  to  his  rescue  "from 
below,"  but  never  do  they  use  language  which  necessarily 
refers  to  Hades.  "Thou  didst  bring  me  back  safe  to 
the  light  from  the  dead  (or  corpses) " 3 — such  is  the  style 
of  allusion.  Undoubtedly  the  language  can  be  applied 
to  Hades  ;  undoubtedly  also  it  could  fit  some  natural 
event  like  a  disaster  in  a  cave  or  mine  which  may 
actually  have  been  suggested 4  by  rationalists  of  the  day 
as  an  explanation  of  the  myth — a  suggestion  which  the 

1  The  appearance  of  Pallas  (vv.  1002-6)  is  regarded  by  Verrall  as  "  a 
chance   blow   received   by   the   madman   from  the  falling  ruins  of  the 
chamber  ". 

2  In  w.  562-82  he  raves,  however  eloquently.    One  man  cannot  capture 
a  whole  fortress  and  punish  a  hostile  population  as  Amphitryon  (vv.  585- 
94)  feels,  though  his  caution  and  prosaic  advice  are  painfully  ludicrous 
considering  the  vast  claims  he  has  made  for  his  son  an  hour  ago. 

3v.  1222. 

4  Compare  the  similar  explanation  of  a  wonderful  feat  actually  offered 
by  Lycus  (vv.  153  sq.}. 


2S4  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

poet  is  inclined   to  adopt  and  for  which  therefore  he 
leaves  room  in  his  phraseology. 

Theseus,  amiable  as  he  is,  yet  presents  little  of  in- 
terest ;  it  is  his  function  to  voice  the  opinions  of  the 
normal  unimaginative  man.  Megara,  however,  of  whom 
little  has  been  said,  deserves  sympathetic  study.  She 
does  not  share  Amphitryon's  extraordinary  beliefs  about 
his  son,1  but  loves  and  admires  him  with  an  affection 
beautifully  expressed  throughout  the  too  brief  portion 
of  the  drama  in  which  she  appears  ;  it  is  she  who  long 
before  the  other  realizes  his  mental  state.2  In  her,  too, 
poetical  imagination  shines  forth  with  a  radiance  which 
surpasses  the  charm  of  the  lyrics  and  Heracles'  impetu- 
ous eloquence.  It  is  she  who  utters  the  Sophoclean 
description  3  of  sovereignty  :  — 

v  Tvpavvift',  ffs  fj.aK.pai  Xoy^ai  iript 
'  (piari  croDfjuvr'  fls  €v8aifiova, 


and  that  expression  *  of  her  yearning  grief  which  in  its 
strange  felicity  of  pathos  suggests  Shakespeare's  Con- 
stance :  — 


7TWJ   O.V    0>S 

crvvfvfynaifj.'  av  tn  irdvr&v  yoovs, 
(Is  fv  8'  fi>€yK.ov<r'  ddpoov  dnoSoirjv  8d<pv; 

The  SuFPLiCES6  ('I/ceriSes),  or  Suppliant  Women,  is 
generally  supposed  on  internal  evidence6  to  have  been 
produced  about  420  B.C. 

The  Suppliants,  who  form  the  chorus,  are  the 
mothers  of  the  Seven  who  attacked  Thebes  and  their 
attendants.  They  surround  ^thra,  mother  of  Theseus, 
the  Athenian  king,  and  beg  her  to  win  his  aid  for  them, 
since  the  Thebans  have  refused  burial  to  the  slain. 
Theseus  at  first  refuses,  but  ^Ethra  persuades  him.  A 
Theban  herald  enters  to  forbid  Theseus,  in  the  name  of 

1  Cp.  Verrall,  pp.  147  sq.  a  Ibid.  pp.  156,  162. 

8  w.  65-6.  4vv.  485-9. 

*  Probable  Arrangement  :  protagonist,  Theseus,  messenger  ;  deuter- 
agonist,  Adrastus,  Evadne  ;  tritagonist,  ^thra,  herald,  I  phis,  Athena. 

6  The  plot  strongly  recalls  the  incident  after  the  battle  of  Delium  (424 
B.C.),  when  the  victorious  Boeotians  at  first  refused  to  surrender  the 
Athenian  dead,  and  the  alliance  between  Athens  and  Argos  (420  B.C.). 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  285 

the  Theban  king  Creon,  to  aid  the  Suppliants.  Theseus 
rejects  this  behest  and  prepares  for  war.  After  an  ode, 
news  comes  of  the  Athenian  victory.  The  remains  of 
five  heroes  are  brought  in  (of  the  other  two,  Amphiaraus 
was  swallowed  up  by  the  earth  and  Polynices  is  supposed 
still  at  Thebes).  Adrastus  delivers  funeral  speeches  over 
them.  The  obsequies  now  take  place.  The  body  of 
Capaneus  is  burned  separately,  and  Evadne  his  wife 
throws  herself  upon  his  pyre  despite  the  entreaties  of  her 
father  Iphis.  The  young  sons  of  the  chieftains  bear  in 
the  funeral  urns,  and  Adrastus  promises  that  Argos  will 
cherish  undying  gratitude  towards  Athens.  The  god- 
dess Athena  appears  and  bids  Theseus  exact  an  oath 
to  this  effect  ;  she  comforts  the  fatherless  boys  with  a 
promise  of  vengeance. 

This  drama  is  perhaps  the  least  popular  and  the  least 
studied  of  all  Greek  plays,  which  is  not  surprising  when 
one  considers  that,  in  spite  of  the  praise  merited  by 
certain  parts,  the  whole  work  considered  by  really 
dramatic  standards  is  astonishingly  bad.  There  is  no 
character-drawing  worth  the  name,  and  though  it  may 
be  said  that  the  real  heroine  of  the  drama  is  Athens,1  it 
is  still  strange  to  find  Euripides  contented  with  such 
colourless  persons  as  Theseus,  ^thra,  and  indeed  all 
the  characters.  Still  more  striking  are  the  irrelevancies. 
Theseus'  address  2  to  Adrastus  and  the  assembly  at  large 
concerning  the  blessings  conferred  by  Heaven  upon  man, 
have  hardly  a  semblance  of  connexion  with  the  urgent 
and  painful  subject  of  debate.  Even  more  otiose,  and 
far  longer,  is  the  dispute3  between  Theseus  and  the 
herald  on  the  claims  of  monarchy  and  democracy. 
The  scene  of  Evadne's  suttee,  however  striking,  is 
dramatically  unjustifiable  ;  it  is  an  episode  in  the  bad 
sense  meant  by  Aristotle  —  no  integral  part  of  the  action. 
The  last  scene  is  spoiled  by  the  intervention  of  Athena, 
who  merely  causes  the  Argives  to  give  an  oath  instead 


1  The  Hypothesis  says  :   ri  5e  Spafia  e'yicw/iiov  'A&jvmW  (altered  by 
Dindorf  with  general  approval  to  'Adrjvcov). 

2  w.  195-218.  *w.  403-56. 


236  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

of  a  simple  promise  that  they  will  ever  be  loyal  friends 
of  Athens.  That  this  intervention  corresponds  to  very 
definite  historical  fact  (the  league  between  the  two  states 
in  420  B.C.  brought  about  by  Alcibiades)  makes  no  dif- 
ference to  the  aesthetic  fact.  None  the  less  one  notes  in 
the  Supplices  certain  excellent  features.  The  appeal T  of 
^Ethra  to  her  son,  and  the  lyric  dirge  of  Evadne  over 
her  husband's  pyre,  are  admirably  composed.  Several 
parts  of  the  work  are  magnificent  as  spectacle — the 
opening  in  which  the  sorrowing  mothers,  Adrastus,  and 
the  fatherless  boys  are  grouped  about  the  aged  queen, 
the  return  of  Theseus  and  his  troops  with  the  dead 
bodies,  the  episode  of  Evadne  as  it  struck  the  eye,2  and 
the  procession  of  boys  carrying  the  funeral  urns. 

The  IoN3  ("lav)  is  a  play  of  uncertain  date,  but  was 
probably  produced  late  in  Euripides'  life ;  some  would 
place  it  as  low  as  413  B.C. 

The  scene  is  laid  before  the  temple  at  Delphi. 
Hermes  tells  how  the  Athenian  princess  Creusa,  owing 
to  the  violence  of  Apollo,  bore  a  child,  which  Hermes 
brought  to  Delphi,  where  the  boy  grew  up  as  a  temple- 
attendant.  Later  Creusa  married  Xuthus,  and  to-day 
they  will  come  to  ask  the  oracle  some  remedy  for  their 
childlessness.  Apollo  will  give  Ion  to  Xuthus  as  the 
latter 's  son  ;  later  he  is  to  be  made  known  to  Creusa 
as  her  own.  Ion  enters,  and  in  a  beautiful  song  ex- 
presses his  joy  in  the  service  of  Apollo.  The  chorus 
(attendants  of  Creusa)  draw  near ;  they  converse  with 
Ion  and  admire  the  temple  fa£ade.  Creusa  arrives  ;  she 
and  Ion  are  mutually  attracted,  and  she  tells  how  "  a 
friend,"  having  borne  a  child  to  Apollo  and  exposed  it, 
wishes  to  know  whether  it  still  lives.  Ion  rejects  the 
story,  and  urges  her  not  to  put  such  a  question  to  the 

^v.  297-331. 

a  She  has  arrayed  herself,  not  in  black  but  in  festal  robes  (vv.  1054-6) 
— an  interesting  parallel  with  the  fine  ending  of  the  second  act  of  Mr. 
Shaw's  Doctor's  Dilemma. 

3  Probable  Arrangement :  protagonist,  Ion,  Paedagogus  ;  deutera- 
gonist,  Hermes,  Creusa  ;  tritagonist,  Xuthus,  servant,  prophetess, 
Athena. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  237 

oracle.  Xuthus  now  appears,  and  goes  within  to 
consult  the  god  ;  Creusa  retires,  while  Ion  muses  on 
the  immorality  of  gods.  After  a  choric  ode  Xuthus 
returns  and  greets  Ion  as  his  son :  the  oracle  has 
declared  that  the  first  man  to  meet  him  will  be  his 
offspring.  Ion  asks  who  is  his  mother  ;  they  agree  that 
she  must  be  some  Delphian  Bacchante.  The  youth  is 
dismayed  at  the  prospect  of  quitting  Delphi  for  Athens, 
but  Xuthus  genially  bids  him  prepare  a  farewell  banquet 
for  his  friends,  and  departs  to  offer  sacrifice  upon 
Parnassus.  The  Athenian  women  express  their  con- 
sternation :  Athens  is  to  have  an  alien  ruler  and  Creusa 
must  remain  childless.  When  she  returns  they  tell 
her  the  news,  and  in  bitter  disappointment  she  breaks 
into  an  agonized  recital  of  her  old  sorrow.  An  aged 
male  attendant  undertakes  to  murder  Ion  by  poison  at 
the  banquet.  Creusa  consents.  After  an  ode  praying 
for  vengeance,  a  messenger  brings  news  that  the  plot 
has  failed  and  Creusa  has  been  condemned  to  death. 
The  queen  hurries  in,  pursued  by  Ion  and  a  mob  ;  she 
takes  refuge  on  the  altar.  Bitter  reproaches  pass 
between  the  two  till  the  Pythian  prophetess  appears ; 
giving  Ion  the  basket  in  which  he  was  discovered  as  a 
babe,  and  which  still  contains  the  articles  then  found 
with  him,  she  bids  him  seek  his  mother.  Creusa  greets 
him  as  her  son  and  names  the  three  objects.  They 
embrace  with  joy,  but  Ion,  learning  that  not  Xuthus  but 
Apollo  is  his  father,  determines  to  ask  the  oracle  which 
account  is  true.  Athena,  however,  appears  and  explains 
that  Apollo  has  been  compelled  to  change  his  plans  ; 
Xuthus  must  continue  to  believe  Ion  his  own  son. 

This  drama  suggests  a  rich  tasselled  robe  of  gorgeous 
embroidery  ;  were  it  not  that  the  basis  of  the  story  is 
so  painfully  sexual,  the  Ion  would  be  perhaps  the  most 
popular  of  Greek  plays.  The  sudden  changes  of  situa- 
tion, the  emotional  crises,  the  sheer  thrill  of  many 
passages,  the  lovely  study  of  the  Greek  Samuel  at  his 
holy  tasks — all  these  things  make  a  glorious  play.  But 
our  delight  is  blurred  by  a  recurrent  perplexity. 


238  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Theology  is  obtruded  throughout,  and  such  a  theology 
as  never  was. 

Apollo  ravishes  Creusa  and  by  help  of  Hermes 
brings  her  child  to  Delphi,  where  he  lives  happily  up  to 
manhood,  but  Creusa  is  allowed  to  suppose  her  child 
destroyed  by  wild  beasts.  The  god,  however,  intends  to 
secure  Ion  his  rights  as  prince  of  Athens.  Xuthus  is  to 
accept  the  lad  as  his  son,  while  Creusa  and  Ion  are  to  be 
made  secretly  known  to  each  other.  But  this  plan  is 
disturbed  by  the  Athenian  women,  and  the  god,  revising 
his  intention,  sends  the  doves  to  save  Ion,  and  the 
prophetess  to  save  Creusa.  All  would  now  be  well, 
since  both  Xuthus  and  the  queen  accept  Ion  as  a  son. 
But  Ion  wishes  to  know  whether  the  oracle  speaks  truth 
or  lies.1  Apollo  therefore  sends  Athena  to  prevent  him 
from  taxing  the  oracle  with  inconsistency.  She  explains 
the  various  activities  of  Apollo,  prophesies  concerning 
the  Athenian  race,  and  bids  Creusa  keep  Xuthus  in 
ignorance. 

Apollo  is  as  much  fool2  as  knave.3  Athena  may 
say  that  "  Apollo  hath  done  all  things  well," 4  but  mortals 
will  not  endorse  her  sisterly  admiration.  Even  the 
revised  plan  cannot  succeed.  How  long  will  Xuthus 
remain  ignorant  of  facts  which  are  being  proclaimed, 
not  only  to  Creusa  and  her  son,  but  also  to  the  crowd 
of  Delphians  and  the  Athenian  women  ?  Even  if  this 
could  be  secured,  things  are  no  better  :  Apollo  has  said 
both  that  he  himself,  and  that  Xuthus,  is  the  father  of 
Ion.  Which  of  these  statements  is  true  matters  com- 
paratively little.  One  of  them  must  be  a  lie.  The  god 
who  gives  oracles  to  Greece  is  a  trickster,  and  no  celestial 
consolations  or  Athenian  throne  can  compensate  the 
youth  for  the  loss  of  what  filled  his  heart  only  this 
morning. 

The  Ion  is  the  one  play  in  which  Euripides  attacks 
the  Olympian  theology  beyond  all  conceivable  doubt. 

1w.  1537  sq. 

a  apaBris  (v.  916,  used  by  Creusa). 

3  6  KOKOS  (v.  952,  used  by  the  Paedagogus).  *v.  1595. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  239 

It  is  certain  (i)  that  he  does  not  believe  in  the  existence 
of  Apollo  and  Hermes ;  (ii)  that  the  Delphic  oracle  is  a 
human  institution  making  impossible  pretensions  ;  and 
(iii)  that  his  method  of  attack  is  by  innuendo  and  im- 
plication.    Yen-all's  theory  of  the  poet's  method  is  here 
on  absolutely  unassailable  ground.     The  story  is  purely 
human,  and  the  theological  story  is  a  mere  addendum 
designed  to  suit  the  religious  occasion  and  many  of  the 
spectators.     What,  then,  is  this  human  story  ?     Verrall 
explains  that   Creusa  was  wronged  by  some  man  un- 
known,   and   that   her   child    perished.     The    Pythian 
priestess  bore l  a  child  which  she  reared  with  a  natural 
tenderness.2     This  child  was  Ion,  whom  the  managers 
of  the  shrine  determined  to  place  in  a  station  which  could 
assist  their  influence.     Then  occurs  the  deadly  scene  in 
which  the  youth  is  about  to  kill  Creusa.     To  save  the 
Delphians  from  the  responsibility  of  murdering  a  foreign 
queen  in  the  open  street,  and  the  boy  from  conduct 
which  would  make  his  admission  to  Athens  impossible, 
a  plot  is  hastily  concocted.      It  will  prevent  war  with 
Athens,  it   will  destroy  Creusa's  hatred   for    Ion,  and 
secure  his  future  throne.    The  priests  have  already  heard, 
even  if  Apollo  has  not,  the  story  shrieked 3  out  at  him  by 
Creusa.     By  an  impudent  master-stroke  they  determine 
that  Ion  shall  be  the  queen's  long-lost  child.     To  this 
end  the  history  of  the  two  persons  supplies  most  of  the 
means  ;  all  that  is  needed  is  something  tangible  to  tie 
the    knot.     Hurriedly   the   clues   are   provided.     The 
necklace  exposed  long  ago  upon  the  babe  is  an  easy 
matter ;  its  fellow  was  found  upon  the  person  of  the 
Psedagogus.4     The  ever-blooming  olive  of  the  Acropolis 
can  be  equalled  in  freshness  by  sprays  plucked  to-day  in 
Delphi ;  and  for  the  embroidery,  it  is  fairly  certain  that 
some  such  covering  must  have  been  wrapped  round  the 

1w.  550  sqq.  are  probably  significant  (and  Ion  actually  the  son  of 
Xuthus). 

JCp.  v.  1324  and  the  rest  of  the  short  conversation  between  her  and 
Ion,  which  is  of  course  charming  on  any  view  of  the  play. 

3vv.  859  sqq.  4vv.  1029  sqq. 


240  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

child,  and  its  pattern  is  sufficiently  vague.1  The  queen 
in  her  heart-hunger  and  peril  snatches  at  these  clues, 
and  in  a  moment  the  two  fall  into  one  another's  arms. 
Finally,  the  clear-headed  persistence  of  Ion  is  met  by 
what  may  in  truth  be  called  a  dea  ex  machinal  Over 
the  temple  fa£ade  is  protruded  the  gigantic  head3  of  a 
figure,  through  which  some  one  offers  such  fumbling 
"  explanations  "  as  are  possible.  All  this  is  enough  for 
Creusa  —  she  has  a  son.  As  for  Ion,  whose  life  has 
been  in  his  faith,  he  commits  himself  to  nothing  ;  in  one 
day  he  has  grown  to  the  full  stature  of  a  man,  but  one 
hardly  supposes  that  he  visited  Delphi  again.  Thus 
may  Verrall's  theory  be  summarized.  It  has  never  been 
answered,  nor  does  it  seem  possible  to  make  any  answer, 
except  that  the  alleged  real  story  is  "far-fetched"  —  of 
course  ;  for  any  rationalistic  explanation  of  a  supposed 
miracle  must  be  strange,  otherwise  no  one  would  have 
hitherto  believed  the  miracle  in  order  to  account  for  the 
facts. 

The  "theological  background"  then  being  merely 
theatrical  gauze  and  canvas,  what  of  the  human  action  ? 
Though  it  forms  an  extraordinarily  brilliant,  powerful, 
fascinating  spectacle,  is  it  a  tragedy?  —  the  story  ends 
with  the  appearance  at  any  rate  of  joy  and  contentment. 
Yet  tragedy  is  found  not  only  in  the  death  of  the  body 
but  in  the  death  of  ideals  ;  and  the  destruction  of  Ion's 
faith  in  his  all-  knowing  unerring  father  is  a  fate  from 
which,  when  we  remember  his  happy  carolling  upon  the 
dawn-lit  temple-steps,  we  could  wish  to  see  him  saved 
even  by  the  Gorgon's  venom.  Any  out-cry  wherewith 
he  might  have  challenged  Creusa's  is  checked  by  the  cold 
disgust  which  fills  him  at  the  sound  of  Athena's  bland 
periods  ;  but  one  knows  the  kind  of  man  Athens  will 
receive  to-morrow  —  one  who  will  agree  with  Xuthus 


1  Cp.  v.  1419  :  oil  re'Xeoi/,  olov  &'  (uSiSayfia  Kep*a'8o?,  and  Ion's  ac- 
knowledgment (v.  1424):  i&ov-  ro&  e<?0'  v(pa(Tfia,  6i<r<j>a6'  a>s  fvpicrKOptv. 
This  latter  surely  means  that  Ion  is  as  satisfied  as  one  can  expect  to  be  in 
tracing  the  fulfilment  of  oracles. 

a  Cp.  V.  1565:   pjxavai?  fppvcraro.  3  v.  I55O:    T 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  241 

that  "these  things  don't  happen,"1  who  will  be  an 
admirable  connoisseur  of  party  politics,2  but  who  has  lost 
his  vision.  This,  then,  is  spiritually,  though  not  techni- 
cally, a  tragedy.  Further,  it  is  technically  a  melodrama. 
That  is,  the  external  form  and  texture  is  calculated  to 
produce  not  as  in  tragedy  simple,  profound,  and  enduring 
exaltation,  but  more  superficial,  violent,  and  transitory 
emotion.  The  Paedagogus  is  pure  melodrama,  witness 
his  change  from  senile  helplessness  3  to  ruthless  vigour,4 
the  wildness  of  his  suggestions  —  "burn  down  the 
temple  .  .  .  "  murder  your  husband  "  ;  the  utter  ab- 
sence of  remorse  and  secondary  interests,  characteristic 
of  villainous  subordinates  in  melodrama  ;  his  complete 
breakdown  when  it  is  demanded  by  the  plot.5  Such  also 
is  the  confrontation  of  Ion  and  Creusa  with  the  terrified 
women  and  scowling  Delphians  as  a  background.  But 
the  finest  thrill,  and  the  touch  least  justified  by  any 
standards  save  those  of  melodrama,  occurs  in  the  speech 
of  Ion  as  he  stands  with  the  fateful  basket  in  his  arms 
and  determines  not  to  open  it  but  to  dedicate  it  to  Apollo. 
The  next  moment  he  reflects  that  he  must  carry  out  the 
god's  will  and  discover  his  origin.  The  genuine  plot 
halts  so  as  to  cause  theatrical  sensation. 

It  is  natural  in  such  a  play  that  the  characterization 
should  be  simple.  Xuthus,  the  Psedagogus,  and  the 
Prophetess,  are  scarcely  more  than  foils  to  the  two 
chief  persons.  Creusa  attracts  us  rather  because  the 
poet  has  so  well  portrayed  woman  than  because  he 
has  created  a  particular  woman.  More  than  this  can 
be  said  of  Ion.  He  is  marked  out  from  all  the  other 
persons  of  this  play  by  sheer  intelligence,  by  the  power 
of  facing  facts,  and  of  constantly  readjusting  his  per- 
spective.6 He  is  a  figure  of  somewhat  quaint  pathos. 


1  ov  7T(8ov  TtKTfi  TfKva  says  the  elder  man  (v.  542),  casually  turning 
his  back  on  the  glory  of  his  wife's  family  (cp.  vv.  265-8). 

2vv.  585  sqq.  3  vv.  738-46. 

4v.  768  sqq,  5  vv.  1215  sqq. 

8  His  very  religion,  when  put  to  the  test,  is  mostly  intellectual.  Apollo's 
moral  shortcomings  only  cause  him  to  shake  his  head  gravely  ;  but  when 
the  god's  truthfulness  is  exploded,  the  whole  fabric  of  his  belief  collapses. 

16 


242  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

The  happy  child  who  sings  to  the  birds  on  the  temple- 
steps  and  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  tranquil  existence 
of  pious  routine,  turns  in  a  moment  to  the  discreet 
adviser  who  can  imagine  incredible  things  :  "  There 
is  no  man  who  will  transmit  to  thee  response  to  such 
a  question.  For  were  he  in  his  own  house  proved 
a  villain,  Phoebus  would  justly  wreak  mishap  upon 
him  that  gave  thee  such  reply."1  As  he  moves  to 
and  fro,  filling  the  holy-water  stoups,  we  can  hear  him 
murmuring  to  himself  serene  blasphemies.  "  But  I  must 
blame  Phcebus.  Such  conduct !  Use  violence  upon 
maidens,  and  betray  them  ?  Beget  children  in  secret 
and  leave  them  to  die  ?  Come,  come !  Since  you 
have  the  power,  remember  its  responsibility.  You 
punish  mankind  for  wrong-doing "  .  .  .  2  and  so  forth, 
including  the  suggestion  that  if  Zeus,  Poseidon,  and 
Apollo  were  compelled  to  pay  damages  for  their 
lustful  offences,  their  temples  would  become  bank- 
rupt. In  politics,  as  in  religion,  Ion  observes  and 
deduces  for  himself.  Athenian  public  life  he  well 
understands  before  entering  it  ; 3  he  has  views  about 
the  influence  of  perverted  religious  feelings  upon 
public  opinion  and  the  execution  of  the  law.4  All  this 
prepares  us  for  the  splendid  moment 6  when  forgetting 
his  own  rule 6  he  insists  on  bearding  the  oracle,  and 
for  the  reception  he  gives  to  the  patching-up  of  Apollo's 
infallibility. 

For  the  rest,  the  work  is  a  study  of  emotions  deeply 
conceived  and  wonderfully  expressed.  Creusa  is  in- 
duced to  tell  her  story,  though  disguised,  to  Ion  largely 
by  her  sudden  feeling  for  the  youth  himself.7  The 
revelation  which  she  makes  to  the  Psedagogus  and 

1  w.  369-72. 

3  w.  436-51.  The  above  paraphrase  is  probably  not  too  colloquial 
(cp.  especially  v.  437  :  rl  irdo-xd  ;  and  v.  439  :  ^77  a-v  y«).  In  fact,  as  the 
speech  is  so  very  explicit  and  unadorned,  and  as  Ion  is  probably  uttering  it 
while  he  performs  his  tasks  (see  434-6,  after  which  these  reflections  begin 
in  the  middle  of  a  line),  we  perhaps  overhear  thoughts  rather  than  words. 

Jvv.  589^^.  4  w.  1312  sqq.  B  vv.  1546^^. 

6  w.  369  sqq.  7  w.  308,  etc. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  248 

the  chorus  is  wrung  from  her  after  all  these  years  by 
the  sudden  loneliness  which  the  gift  of  a  son  to  her 
husband  brings  upon  her  heart.  And  the  gloriously 
successful  climax1  where  she  suddenly  addresses  her 
executioner  as  her  son  is  purely  emotional  also.  Even 
the  intellectual  revolt  of  Ion  is  introduced  by  a  sudden 
turn  of  the  feelings  in  the  recognition-scene  :  "  Mother, 
let  my  father,  too,  share  in  our  joy  ".a 

The  TROADES  3  (T/awaSes),  or  Trojan  Women,  was 
produced  in  415  B.C.  together  with  Alexander,  Pala- 
medes,  and  Sisyphus  as  satyric  play.  This  group 
obtained  the  second  prize,  being  defeated  by  the  work 
of  Xenocles  "  whoever  he  is  ".* 

The  action  takes  place  outside  Troy  after  its  cap- 
ture ;  in  the  background  is  a  tent  wherein  are  captive 
Trojan  women.  Before  the  tent  lies  Hecuba  in  a 
stupor  of  grief.  The  deities  Poseidon  and  Athena 
explain  in  a  dialogue  that  they  are  quitting  Troy  with 
reluctance ;  Poseidon  will  destroy  the  Greek  fleet 
on  its  way  home.  When  they  have  departed,  Hecuba 
stirs  and  laments  ;  soon  she  is  joined  by  the  chorus 
of  Trojan  women.  Talthybius  tells  her  that  Cassandra 
is  to  become  the  concubine  of  Agamemnon  ;  concerning 
Polyxena  he  speaks  evasively  ;  Andromache  is  given 
to  Neoptolemus,  Hecuba  herself  to  Odysseus,  whom 
she  detests  above  all  Greeks.  Cassandra  rushes 
forward  uttering  in  frenzy  a  horrible  parody  of  a 
marriage-song  in  her  own  honour  ;  she  prophesies  the 
woes  of  Agamemnon  and  Odysseus.  Hecuba  ponders 
her  former  greatness  and  present  misery  ;  the  chorus 
sing  the  fatal  day  when  Troy  welcomed  the  Wooden 
Horse.  Andromache  and  her  infant  Astyanax  are 
brought  in,  and  from  her  Hecuba  hears  Polyxena's 
death.  Though  prostrated  by  grief  she  urges  Andro- 
mache to  please  her  new  lord,  that  perchance  his  son 

1  vv.  1397  sqq.  a  vv.  1468  sq. 

3  Arrangement    (probable)  :     protagonist,    Hecuba  ;    deuteragonist, 
Athena,  Cassandra,  Andromache,   Helen ;  tritagonist,  Poseidon,  Talthy- 
bius, Menelaus. 

4  /Elian,  Var.  Hist.  ii.  8. 


244  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

may  revive  something  of  Troy's  greatness.  Talthybius 
returns  with  tidings  that  Astyanax  is  to  be  hurled  from 
the  battlements.  After  an  ode  on  the  first  siege  of 
Troy,  Menelaus  enters  rejoicing  in  his  long-deferred 
opportunity  of  slaying  Helen.  Hecuba  bursts  into 
rapturous  thanks  to  the  Power  which  rules  mankind, 
and  when  Helen  pleads  innocence  refutes  her  bitterly. 
Talthybius  brings  in  the  mangled  body  of  Astyanax 
over  which  Hecuba  utters  a  speech  of  reproachful 
lament.  The  play  ends  with  the  burning  of  Troy. 

In  structure  archaic,  this  play  is  in  spirit  something 
quite  new  to  the  Attic  stage.  On  the  one  hand  there 
is  little  unfolding  of  a  plot ;  we  are  reminded  strongly 
of  the  Prometheus  by  the  portrayal  of  a  situation  which 
changes  with  extreme  slowness.  It  is  the  manner  of 
this  portrayal  which  is  new  and  terrible.  The  Troades 
was  performed  after  the  sack  of  Melos  and  before 
the  departure  of  the  Sicilian  expedition  ;  it  is  a  state- 
ment, by  a  member  of  the  nation  which  annihilated 
Melos,  of  the  horrors  wherewith  the  vanquished  are 
overwhelmed.  The  glory  won  by  the  Greeks  who 
overthrew  Troy  was  the  best-known  and  most  cherished 
gift  of  tradition.  Now  a  Greek  writer  reveals  the 
other  side  of  conquest.  After  the  crime  of  Melos, 
Euripides  never  felt  as  he  had  felt  towards  Athens 
or  Greece.  His  intellect  and  his  heart  were  appalled 
by  the  cold  ferocity  of  which  his  fellows  showed  them- 
selves every  year  more  capable.  Hitherto  he  has 
attacked  the  evils  of  human  nature  ;  now  he  impeaches 
one  definite  nation,  and  that  his  own.  No  spectator 
could  doubt  that  "Troy"  is  Melos,  "the  Greeks" 
Athens.  Such  uncompromising  hostility  must  have 
produced  deep  effects  on  so  impressionable  an  assembly. 
For  it  is  not  merely  a  denunciation  ;  it  is  a  threat. 
The  poet  takes  the  whole  picture  of  misery  and  stupid 
tyranny,  and  puts  it  into  sinister  perspective  in  his 
prologue.  All  the  cruelties  of  the  play  are  committed 
by  the  Greeks  under  shadow  of  the  calamity  denounced 
against  them  by  the  deities  of  the  prologue,  whereof 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  246 

we  are  again  and  again  reminded  by  the  sentences 
casually  dropped  by  Talthybius  and  others,  that  the 
host  is  eager  to  embark.  And  this  when  the  great 
Athenian  armament  was  itself  thronging  the  Peiraeus 
in  preparation  for  the  voyage  to  Sicily.1 

Of  characterization,  therefore,  little  is  to  be  found. 
Cassandra,  though  her  pathos  is  less  deep  and  wide 
than  that  of  her  namesake  in  the  Agamemnon,  is  yet 
valuable,  as  aiding  in  that  perspective  which  is  given 
mainly  by  the  prologue.  Talthybius  and  Andromache 
are  ably  sketched,  but  Menelaus  and  Helen  are  intro- 
duced merely  for  the  sake  of  the  elaborate  dispute 
between  Hecuba  and  Helen.  It  is  upon  Hecuba  that 
the  whole  poem  hangs — not  upon  her  action  or  even 
her  character,  but  upon  her  capacity  for  suffering.  With 
the  progress  of  the  play  she  changes  from  the  Queen 
of  Troy  to  a  figure  summing  up  in  herself  all  the  sorrows 
of  humanity.  As  each  woe  is  faced,  lamented,  and  at  last 
assimilated  into  an  ennobling  experience,  another  disaster 
flings  her  back  into  the  primitive  outcry  to  begin  once 
more  the  task  of  resignation.  She  is  a  pagan  mater 
dolorosa.  As  each  billow  of  grief  descends  upon  her, 
leaving  her  still  sentient,  nay,  filled  with  eager  sympathy 
for  others,  the  Greeks  who  oppress  her  become  strangely 
puny  and  unreal  like  the  legionaries  in  some  mediaeval 
picture  of  martyrdom.  Even  when  she  confesses  to 
complete  despair  she  yet  the  next  moment  begins  to 
fashion  within  the  abyss  a  tiny  abode  for  hope  :  Astya- 
nax  may  grow  to  manhood,  "  so  that — if  chance  is  kind — 
sons  of  thy  blood  may  dwell  again  in  Ilium,  and  there 
might  yet  be  a  city".2  Next  moment  the  child  is  torn 
away  to  be  flung  from  the  battlements.  Even  so, 
Hecuba  recovers  her  balance  in  the  end  and  can  deliver, 
as  she  stands  over  the  little  body,  the  stinging  reproach 3 
of  a  "  barbarian  "  revolted  by  the  crimes  of  "  civilization  ".* 

1  There  are  reminders  of  the  western  lands  in  w.  220  sqq, 

3  vv.  703  sqq.  3  vv.  1 158  sqq, 

4  v.  764  :  2>  $dp/3up'  fgfvpovrts  "E\\r)vts  <aicd  (Andromache's  phrase). 


246  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

It  is  to  this  endless  capacity  for  facing  sorrow  and  trans- 
muting it  into  rich  experience  that  we  owe  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  definite  philosophic  dicta  to  be  found 
in  Euripides  :  — 


2>  yf/s  O^T^IO,  Karri  yfjs  f^a>v  tftpav 

OfTTlS  TtOT    fl  (TV,   SvOTOjraOTO?  (ISfVOl, 

Zfvs,  fir'  dvdyKT)  (^ucreor,  fiTt  vovs  fipor&v, 
Trpotrijti^a/iijv  crt  •   Trdvra  yap  81'  d-^6<pov 
fiaivatv  K.(\f\>6ov  KOTO.  SLKT]V  ra  dvrjr'  ayas.1 

"  O  Throne  of  earth,  by  earth  upheld,  whosoe'er  Thou 
art,  beyond  conjecture  of  our  knowledge  —  Zeus,  or  the 
law  of  Nature,  or  the  mind  of  Man,  to  Thee  do  I 
address  my  prayer  ;  for  moving  along  Thy  soundless 
path  Thou  dost  guide  all  mortal  life  with  justice."  As 
for  the  Olympian  gods,  they  are  scarcely  attacked  ; 
there  is  little  more  than  a  jaded  recognition  that  belief 
in  them  is  no  help  or  inspiration.2  To  this  plaintive 
agnosticism  there  is  here  no  alternative  but  fierce 
pessimism,  as  when  in  the  frightful  eloquence  of  Hecuba 
we  are  told  that  Fate  is  "a  capering  idiot  ".3 

Most  mournful  of  all  Greek  tragedies,  this  is  yet 
beautiful,  and  full  of  splendid  spectacular  effects  :  Cassan- 
dra bounding  wildly  forth  with  her  bridal  torches  ;  the 
entry  of  Andromache  seated  in  the  waggon  among  the 
spoils  of  Troy  ;  Hecuba  bending  over  Astyanax'  body 
within  the  great  buckler  of  his  father  ;  the  little  procession 
which  carries  the  shield  to  burial,  princely  robes  hanging 
therefrom  ;  and  the  aged  queen  addressing  her  farewell 
to  the  blazing  city. 

1  w.  884  sqq.  (The  first  line  refers  to  air.)  If  we  possess  any  evi- 
dence as  to  the  theological  belief  of  the  poet  himself  it  is  probably  con- 
tained in  these  lines. 

9  w.  469  sqq.,  841  sqq.t  1060  sqq.  (especially  the  poignant  /*«A«  /*eA« 
/MH),  1240;??. 

8  w.  1204  sqq.  :  — 


rots  rpoirois  yap  at 

(pn\i)KTOs  o)s  uv  8  pair  os,  aXXor'  aXXoert 
Tr^Swcri. 

The  phrasing  points  back  effectively  to  Poseidon's  description  of  Athena's 
fickleness  (vv.  67  sq.  :  ri  8'  2>8f  irt)8qs  aXXor'  fls  SX\ovs  rpoirovs;). 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  247 

IPHIGENIA  IN  TAURIS1  ('l(/)tyeVeta  17  eV  Tavpoi?)  or 
Iphigenia  among  the  Taurians,  is  a  work  of  uncertain 
date.2  Nothing  is  known  of  its  success  when  produced, 
and  the  absence  of  scholia  suggests  that  it  was  not 
popular  in  later  times. 

Iphigenia,  before  the  temple  of  Artemis  among  the 
Taurians  (in  South  Russia),  relates  that  she  was  not 
slain  at  Aulis,  but  brought  by  Artemis  to  serve  as  her 
priestess  here,  close  to  the  city  of  King  Thoas,  where 
she  is  compelled  to  sacrifice  all  strangers.  A  dream  has 
suggested  to  her  that  her  brother  Orestes  is  dead  ;  she 
goes  within  to  prepare  offerings  to  his  shade.  Orestes 
and  Pylades  enter  ;  they  have  been  sent  by  the  Delphian 
oracle  to  steal  the  image  of  Artemis ;  in  this  way 
Orestes  will  be  freed  from  the  Furies.  They  postpone 
their  attempt  till  nightfall,  and  retire.  The  chorus  of 
Greek  captive  maidens  enter  in  attendance  upon 
Iphigenia,  and  a  cowherd  brings  news  that  two  Greeks 
have  been  captured  and  are  being  brought  for  sacrifice. 
After  a  choric  ode,  the  rustics  enter  with  their  prisoners. 
A  conversation  follows,  in  which  neither  Iphigenia's 
name  nor  that  of  Orestes  is  revealed,  and  she  offers  to 
spare  his  life  if  he  will  take  a  letter  to  Argos.  He  insists 
that  Pylades  shall  go,  and  the  latter  asks  that  the 
message  be  read.  It  proves  to  be  an  appeal  to  Orestes, 
and,  exclaiming  that  he  will  at  once  perform  his  task, 
Pylades  hands  it  to  his  friend.  Brother  and  sister  thus 
become  known  to  one  another,  and  all  three  agree  to 
escape,  taking  the  image  with  them.  They  enter  the 
temple,  after  Iphigenia  has  enjoined  secrecy  upon  the 
chorus,  who  sing  their  yearning  for  home.  King  Thoas 
enters  and  is  tricked  by  Iphigenia  into  aiding  the  escape. 
The  chorus  sing  Apollo's  conquest  of  Delphi.  A  messen- 
ger rushes  in,  seeking  Thoas  ;  the  chorus  misdirect  him, 
but  in  vain.  Thoas  learns  how  his  people  have  been 

1  The  arrangement  is  uncertain.  Perhaps  :  protagonist,  Iphigenia  ; 
deuieragonist,  Orestes,  messenger,  Athena ;  tritagonist,  herdsman, 
Pylades,  Thoas. 

a  Murray  and  others  place  it  about  414-2,  Wjlampwitz,  411-9. 


248  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

beguiled  into  allowing  the  Greeks  to  embark.  How- 
ever, a  contrary  wind  is  even  now  driving  them  back. 
Thoas  is  preparing  to  hunt  the  fugitives  down  when 
Athena  appears  and  stops  him  ;  he  is,  moreover,  com- 
manded to  send  the  Greek  maidens  home.  He  consents, 
and  the  play  ends  with  the  joy  of  the  chorus. 

This  drama  is  one  of  the  finest  among  Euri- 
pides' works.  It  provides  a  marked  contrast  with  the 
Troades ;  there  is  bitterness  here  indeed,  but  it  is  the 
bitterness  of  Voltaire  rather  than  that  of  Swift.  And 
whereas  in  the  former  play  plot  is  almost  non-existent, 
here  it  is  vital.  Perhaps  the  most  brilliant  piece  of  con- 
struction in  Euripides  is  the  celebrated  Recognition- 
scene  of  this  drama.  Indeed  the  whole  tragedy  is  the 
story  of  a  plot,  skilful  and  breathless.  Iphigenia's  method 
— to  deceive  by  telling  the  truth  (about  Orestes'  matri- 
cide)— was  particularly  dear  to  Greeks,  connoisseurs 
of  falsehood  both  in  life  and  in  literature  ;  so  beautifully 
does  she  succeed  that  (partly  for  her  own  amusement) 
she  tells  the  king  further  the  news  she  has  just  heard 
concerning  her  brother's  welfare.  But  the  poet  is  no 
more  the  slave  of  his  wit  than  of  his  sympathies,  and 
we  are  brought  to  realization  of  the  facts — namely,  that 
the  three  Greeks  are  thieves  and  Iphigenia  a  traitress — 
by  her  own  self-mockery  :  "  Falsehood,  thy  name  is 
Hellas,"  l  and  by  the  simple  generosity  with  which  the 
prince  accepts  her  suggestions. 

The  second  feature  of  importance  is  the  atmosphere 
of  adventure.  A  strange  grim  glamour  lies  upon  this 
story  of  breathless  dangers  in  a  region  which  is  itself  a 
mystery  and  a  menace.  We  must  forget  modern  notions 
about  South  Russia,  lines  of  steamboats,  and  Odessa 
as  civilized  as  Hull.  This  kingdom  of  Thoas  is  as  re- 
mote from  Athens  as  Thibet  or  the  Upper  Congo  from 
us ;  indeed  at  many  points  we  recall  the  African  stories 
of  Sir  Rider  Haggard.  Amid  these  ghastly  altars,  the 
secret  fire  and  the  cleft  of  death,2  deserted  seas  and 

1  V.   1205  :    iriarov  'EXXaf  oldfv  ovfev. 

2  v.  626  :  irvp  lepov  (v8ov,  xao-fta  8'  fvpwirbv  irerpas — a  marvellous  line. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  249 

bloodthirsty  savages,  there  is  an  infinite  painful  sweet- 
ness in  Orestes'  reminder  of  a  dusty  heirloom  in  his 
sister's  bedchamber  at  home.1  The  poem  is  filled  with 
suggestions  of  remoteness,  the  heaving  of  strange 
billows,  legendary  landing-places.  Flowing  from  this 
is  the  home-sickness  which  breaks  out  again  and  again, 
in  Pylades'  recollection,  during  his  worst  agony,  of  the 
winding  Phocian  glens,2  and  in  the  lyric  songs  where 
the  Greek  captives  long  to  fly  homeward  with  the 
halcyon  to  the  hallowed  places  of  Greece.3 

But  not  only  does  religion  as  a  radiant  emotion 
setting  a  glow  around  "the  hill  of  Cynthus"  and  the 
"  circling  mere  "  mark  the  play.  Euripides  here,  as 
so  often,  treats  religion  intellectually  as  well  as  emotion- 
ally. By  the  lips  of  Orestes  he  passes  judgment  upon 
Olympian  religion  as  a  guide  of  conduct.  Taking  the 
story  of  ^schylus,  he  acts  not  as  a  lesser  unbeliever  would 
have  acted  ;  he  does  not  dub  the  reconciliation  of  the 
Eumenides  a  delusion.  With  a  studiously  bungling  air 
he  explains  that  one  section  of  the  Furies  was  appeased, 
and  the  other  not.4  If  the  manner  of  this  revision  is 
delightfully  impudent,  the  intention  is  deadly.  Orestes 
has  been  sent  away  by  the  Delphian  priests  to  do  some- 
thing, to  seek  and  undergo,  if  possible,  a  physiological 
effect  simply  through  the  excitement  of  a  far  journey. 
We  are  very  near  to  the  "  long  holiday  and  change  of 
air  ".  The  Furies  exist  nowhere  but  in  his  own  brain. 
On  the  Athenian  Areopagus  he  went  through  a  climax 
of  hallucination.  Surrounded  by  stray  animals,6  he  saw 
in  imagination  all  the  tremendous  events  imagined  by 
y^schylus  as  objective  reality.  His  mind  only  partly 
cleared  by  this  paroxysm,  he  fled  back  to  Delphi  for 
complete  healing.  The  "oracle"  sent  him  to  the  re- 
motest region  known  to  Greeks,  to  a  land,  moreover, 

1  vv.  823-6. 

*  V.  677  :   $<0K«'o>i/  r"  (v  iro\vtrrv\<a  \6ovi. 

3  See  especially  the  lovely  song,  vv.  1089  sqq. 

4  vv.  968  sqq. 

8  One  can  hardly  doubt  that  this  is  the  intention  of  the  scene  on  the 
Taurian  beach  (vv.  281-94). 


250  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

where  the  natives  are  wont  to  murder  all  strangers. 
Phoebus  is  ashamed  of  his  "  former  responses  "  and  seeks 
to  be  rid  of  his  too  obedient,  too  persistent  devotee.1 
Such  is  the  opinion  of  Orestes  himself  when  at  last  in 
the  "toils,"*  and  the  whole  work  (with  an  exception 
presently  to  be  noticed)  is  pervaded  by  this  unflinching 
rationalism.  The  pious  herdsmen  who  see  marine 
deities  in  the  Greek  visitors  are  laughed  to  scorn  by  a 
companion  who,  though  dubbed  "  a  fool  reckless  and 
irreverent,"  3  is  entirely  justified.  Iphigenia's  reflections  * 
on  the  human  sacrifices  of  the  Tauri  lead  her  to  acquit 
the  goddess  of  "  such  folly  "  and  to  attribute  this  prac- 
tice to  ferocious  savages  who  make  gods  in  their  own 
image.  At  one  point  indeed  simple  faith  is  justified. 
Orestes  when  faced  by  death  is  comforted  by  his  friend  : 
"  The  god's  oracle  hath  not  yet  destroyed  thee,  close  as 
thou  dost  stand  to  slaughter  ".5  In  a  moment  Orestes 
is  free  from  peril  at  the  priestess'  hands.  But  no  one, 
least  of  all  Euripides,  expects  even  the  "gods"  to 
blunder  always.  Finally,  the  ode  on  Apollo's  conquest 
of  Delphi  is  a  delicate  but  pungent  satire  :  the  "  oracle  " 
is  a  magnificent  trade  connexion.6 

This  cynical  clearness  is  a  guide  in  studying  the 
exceptional  passage  above  mentioned  :  in  the  last  scene 
orthodox  piety  is  upheld  by  the  apparition  of  Athena. 
Does  then  the  Iphigenia  in  the  end  refute  the  rationalism 
impressed  on  it  almost  everywhere  ?  We  can  take  our 
choice,  accepting  Athena,  Apollo's  divinity,  and  all  the 
other  traditional  garnishments,  but  stultifying  many  pas- 
sages, and  the  tone  of  nine-tenths  of  the  play  ;  or  we 
can  accept  the  latter  as  a  thrilling  and  pathetic  study  in 
human  superstition  and  intrepidity,  but  reject  Athena  as 
a  conventional  phantom.  In  this  latter  case  we  shall, 
with  Dr.  Verrall,  consider  that  the  play,  for  all  artistic 

1  vv.  71 1  sqq.  The  feelings  of  the  Delphian  hierarchy,  when  Orestes 
after  all  actually  returned,  bringing  with  him  the  image— about  which  they 
cared  not  a  farthing — may  be  imagined  by  the  irreverent. 

8  v.  77.  3  v.  275.  4vv.  380  sqq.  6w.  719  sq. 

6  See  Verrall,  Eur.  the  Rationalist,  pp.  217-30  {Euripides  in  a 
Hymn). 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  251 

and  intelligible  purposes,  ends  at  v.  1434,  leaving 
Thoas  to  capture  and  destroy  the  Greeks.  Many  will 
find  such  a  choice  difficult.  The  Iphigenia  is  certainly 
not  as  clear  a  case  as  the  Orestes,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
Ion.  But  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  here  he  has  com- 
posed a  magnificent  play  to  bolster  up  theology  which 
elsewhere  he  strenuously  attacks.  Nevertheless,  the 
speech  of  Athena  is  not  in  itself  contradictory  or 
ludicrous. 

The  mental  pathology — it  can  hardly  be  called  the 
character — of  Orestes,  deserves  close  study.  He  pro- 
vides an  admirable  instance  of  that  skill  in  portraying 
madness  for  which  Euripides  was  famed.1  A  man  of 
strong  simple  instincts,  he  is  shaken  terribly  by  the  mur- 
derous events  of  his  childhood.  His  brain  is  over- 
thrown by  the  sway  of  the  hierarchy  and  by  the  deeds 
to  which  he  was  impelled.  From  this  overthrow  he 
never  quite  recovered,  as  the  dramatist  himself  carefully 
indicates.2  Throughout  the  Iphigenia  we  discern,  drawn 
with  extraordinary  skill  and  tact,  the  struggle  between 
the  old  obsession  and  an  intellect  originally  clear  and 
acute.  The  prologue,  when  he  explores  the  ground 
with  Pylades,  shows  him  (in  spite  of  a  ghastly  brilliance 
of  thought  fit  only  for  frenzy  or  the  nightmare 8)  possessed 
of  shrewdness  which,  if  consistently  applied,  would  have 
saved  him  from  the  expedition  altogether.  Later  he  is 
seen  hurled  by  the  excitement  of  his  quest  into  complete, 
though  temporary,  insanity4 — a  fit  which  throws  back 
strange  light  upon  his  "  trial "  at  Athens  and  provides  a 
comment  upon  the  later  scene,5  where,  though  at  the 
moment  sane,  he  yet  believes  in  the  delusive  experi- 
ence. Everywhere  we  find  this  superstructure  of  sanity 
on  an  insane  foundation.  Though  he  can  see  through 
the  "oracle  "  as  clearly  as  any  man  with  regard  to  its 

1  Longinus,  de  Subl.  xv.  3.  a  vv.  970  sqq. 

3  v.  73:  (g  ai/xarcov  yovv  £(«!>#'  f^et  rpix^para,  a  grotesque  thought 
which  we  have  just  heard  (as  Murray  points  out  in  his  apparatus]  from 
Iphigenia  as  part  of  her  dream. 

4w.  281  sqq.  svv.  961  sqq. 


252  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

past  deceptions,  he  is  pathetically  enthusiastic  for  the 
latest  nostrum.1  The  long  account2  of  his  sorrows 
which  he  gives  his  sister  is  full  of  such  sinister  meaning. 
He  essays  to  describe  the  origin  of  the  court  which  tried 
him :  "  There  is  a  holy  .  .  .  vote?  which  long  ago 
Zeus  founded  for  Ares  owing  to  some  blood-guiltiness, 
whatever  it  was.  ..."  He  has  forgotten  half  the  facts, 
and  bungles  the  rest.  This  speech,  full  of  obscurity, 
irrelevancy,  and  disconnected  thought,  is  practically 
ignored  by  his  sister,  who  realizes  his  condition  both 
from  the  report  of  the  herdsman  and  from  the  occasional 
lunacy  he  manifests  in  conversation.4  Orestes,  too, 
knows  5  how  it  is  with  him,  and  the  complete  absence  of 
lament  on  his  part  when  faced  with  death  is  one  of  the 
grimmest  things  in  the  drama. 

The  ELECTRAC  ('HXeicT/m)  was  probably  acted  in  413 
B.C.7  The  scene  is  laid  before  the  cottage  of  a  peasant, 
who  explains  that  he  is  the  husband  of  Electra,  but  in 
name  only ;  she  comes  forth  and  they  depart  to  their 
several  tasks.  Orestes  and  Pylades  arrive  ;  Orestes  has 
come  at  Apollo's  bidding  to  avenge  his  father,  at  whose 
tomb  he  has  offered  sacrifice.  Seeing  Electra  they 
retire.  She  is  invited  to  a  festival  by  the  chorus 
of  Argive  women,  but  refuses,  urging  her  sorrow  and 
poverty.  The  two  strangers  approach,  Orestes  pretend- 
ing that  he  has  been  sent  by  her  brother  for  tidings 
of  her  ;  she  gives  him  a  passionate  message  begging 
Orestes  to  exact  vengeance.  The  peasant  returns  and 

I  Qfas  ftperas  is  now  the  prescription,  as  we  may  call  it.     Cp.  vv.  980, 
985-6,  and  1038-40. 

II  vv.  939  sgq. 

*^0or  (v.  945).  He  means  "assembly  (which  votes),"  but  he  has 
^f}<f>os  on  the  brain,  as  well  he  might  have  (vv.  965  sy.). 

4  VV.  739  sf-  and  1046:  Hv\d8rjs  ft'  58'  fjft.lv  nov  rera£er«u  (frovov — 
if  this  is  a  task  set  by  Apollo  there  must  be  murder  in  it. 

6v.  933- 

8 Arrangement :  protagonist,  Electra;  deuteragonist,  Orestes,  Cly- 
taemnestra  ;  tritagonist,  farmer,  old  man,  messenger,  Castor.  Pylades 
and  Polydeuces  were  represented  by  a  mute  actor. 

7  From  vv.  1347-56  it  is  clear  that  the  Sicilian  expedition  had  already 
sailed,  but  that  news  of  the  disaster  had  not  yet  reached  Athens. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  253 

sends  the  strangers  within  as  his  guests  ;  the  chorus  sing 
the  expedition  to  Troy.  An  aged  shepherd  enters  with 
the  provisions  for  which  Electra  sent,  and  tells  her  that 
he  has  seen  upon  Agamemnon's  tomb  a  sacrifice  and 
a  votive  lock  of  hair.  He  in  vain  seeks  to  convince 
Electra  that  her  brother  must  be  in  Argos,  but  later 
recognizes  Orestes  by  a  scar.  Brother  and  sister  em- 
brace with  joy  ;  after  passionate  prayers  to  Agamemnon's 
shade  he  departs  to  seek  yEgisthus.  The  chorus  sing 
the  crime  of  Thyestes  which  caused  sun  and  stars  to 
change  their  course.  A  messenger  relates  how  ,/Egis- 
thus  has  been  cut  down  by  Orestes  in  the  midst  of  a 
religious  service ;  the  avengers  return  with  the  body, 
over  which  Electra  gloats.  Clytaemnestra  is  seen  ap- 
proaching, lured  by  a  story  that  Electra  has  given  birth 
to  a  child.  Orestes  feels  remorse,  but  is  hardened  by 
his  sister,  who  awaits  her  mother  alone.  A  dispute 
follows  about  the  queen's  past,  but  Clytaemnestra  refuses 
to  quarrel,  and  goes  within  to  perform  the  birth-ritual. 
Soon  her  cries  are  heard,  and  Orestes  and  Electra  re- 
enter,  filled  with  grief  and  shame.  In  the  sky  appear 
Castor  and  Polydeuces  (Pollux),  brothers  of  Clytaem- 
nestra, who  blame  the  matricide,  which  they  attribute  to 
Apollo  ;  then  they  depart  to  the  Sicilian  sea  to  save 
mariners  who  are  righteous  and  unperjured. 

Special  interest  clings  to  this  play,  because  here  only 
can  we  see  Euripides  traversing  precisely  the  same 
ground  as  ^schylus  (in  the  Choephorce)  and  Sophocles 
(in  the  Electro],  This  similarity  of  subject  long 
damaged  Euripides'  play  in  the  eyes  of  critics.  It  was 
assumed  that  the  youngest  poet  was  imitating  his  fore- 
runners, and  it  needed  small  acumen  to  observe  that 
the  imitation  was  bad.  Whereupon,  instead  of  wonder- 
ing whether  perhaps  Euripides  was  after  all  not  copying 
others,  critics  proceeded  to  write  cheerful  nonsense 
about  "  frivolity  "  and  "  a  profound  falling  off  in  art  and 
taste".1  The  fact  simply  is  that  each  of  these  three 

1  Bernhardy,  Geschichte  der  griechischen  Poesie  II,  ii.  p.  490. 


254  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

tragedians  discussed  the  story  from  a  different  viewpoint. 
/Eschylus  treated  it  as  a  religious  fact,  Sophocles  as  an 
emotional  fact,  Euripides  as  an  ethical  fact,  ^schylus 
is  on  the  side  of  Apollo,  Sophocles  on  the  side  of  Electra, 
Euripides  on  the  side  of  no  one.  He  asks  himself  what 
circumstances,  what  perversions  of  character,  can  result 
in  this  matricide. 

Hence  his  careful  study  of  Clytsemnestra,  Electra, 
and  Orestes,  so  careful  that  a  reader  at  first  supposes 
the  poet  a  partisan  of  Clyta^mnestra.  Not  so  ;  he  has 
merely  tried  to  understand  her.  A  placid  woman  of 
quick  but  shallow  affections,  she  was  abandoned  by  her 
husband  for  ten  years  to  the  memory  of  a  murdered 
daughter.  Delightfully  characteristic  is  her  argument : 
"  Suppose  Menelaus  had  been  stolen  from  home ;  would 
it  have  been  right  for  me  to  slay  Orestes  that  Helen 
might  regain  her  husband  ?  "  *  Vigorous  and  damaging, 
this  is  yet  tinged  with  comedy  by  its  raw  novelty  and 
precision.  One  almost  overhears  the  commerages  of 
the  street-corner.  When  Agamemnon  brought  back 
openly  a  concubine  to  his  home,  Clytsemnestra  assisted2 
her  lover  in  anticipating  the  king's  revenge  by  murdering 
him.  From  this  act  she  has  drifted  into  condoning 
cruelty  against  her  unoffending  children  ;  throughout 
she  has  acted  wickedly  and  acquiesced  in  worse  conduct 
by  others.  Nevertheless,  she  is  no  figure  of  tragedy  ;  she 
only  suggests  tragedy  because  she  is  the  mother  of  her 
executioners.  Her  chief  love  is  placid  domesticity ;  if 
this  can  be  obtained  only  by  murdering  those  who 
threaten  it,  that  is  very  terrible,  but  the  world  is  notori- 
ously imperfect.  Clytaemnestra  cannot,  and  will  not, 
meet  Electra  on  the  tragic  plane.  Her  daughter's  great 
outburst  and  threat  of  murderous  vengeance  she  meets 
in  this  comfortable  fashion :  "  My  child,  it  was  always 
your  nature  to  love  your  father.  It  often  happens  so. 
Some  favour  the  male  side,  while  others  love  their 
mother  rather  than  their  father.  I  forgive  you  :  for 

1  vv.  1041-3.  a  w.  9-10. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  255 

in  truth  I  rejoice  not  greatly,  child,  in  the  acts  that  I 
have  done.  .  .  .  But  you  ! — unwashed  and  shabby  in 
attire ! "  .  .  .  And  so  forth.  Clytsemnestra  is  almost 
as  ill-tuned  to  the  atmosphere  which  Electra  con- 
stantly and  deliberately  creates  as  Sancho  Panza  to  the 
high  converse  of  his  master.  The  queen  has  been 
summoned  to  her  daughter's  cottage  by  report  of  a 
newly-born  infant.  She  shows  her  natural  goodness  of 
heart  by  hurrying  thither  at  once  (though  of  course  she 
has  not  the  taste  to  leave  her  gorgeous  retinue  behind) 
and  doing  all  she  can  to  comfort  and  help  her  daughter. 
By  this  time  she  has  all  unconsciously  "taken  the  wind 
out  of  the  sails"  of  the  avengers.  But  Electra  can 
maintain  her  grimness  and  actually  utter  black  hints  of 
a  wedding-bed  in  the  grave ! *  We  turn  next  to  her  ; 
what  manner  of  woman  can  this  be  ? 

Electra  is  one  of  Euripides'  most  vivid  and  successful 
female  characters.  She  has  strong  claims  on  our  pity 
and  sympathy,  but  fails  to  win  them.  Her  mother  is 
a  ready  victim  of  any  emotion  which  breathes  upon  her  ; 
Electra  has  settled  her  position  emotionally,  intellec- 
tually, morally,  years  ago.  Nothing  can  alter  her;  she 
is  the  victim  and  the  apostle  of  an  idee  fixe.  The  crimes 
of  love  are  no  less  frightful  than  the  crimes  of  hate  ; 
in  Electra  affection  for  Agamemnon  has  become  the 
basis  of  cold  ferocity  against  Clytaemnestra.  It  is 
Orestes  who  shrinks  when  the  deed  is  to  be  done, 
Electra  who  braces  his  resolution.  She  has  borne  no 
child.  Instead  of  beginning  a  new  life  in  her  children, 
looking  to  the  future,  she  has  fed  morbidly  upon 
memories,  stiffening  natural  grief  and  resentment  into 
permanent  inhuman  morosity.  Clytaemnestra  has 
blandly  outlived  two  murders  in  her  own  family,  and 
remains  neither  unamiable  nor  uninteresting ;  but  it  is 
impossible  to  imagine  what  Electra  will  do,  say,  or 
think,  after  the  events  of  to-day.  This  unnatural  self- 
concentration,  which  means  not  only  her  mother's  death 

1 1142-6. 


256  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

but  her  own  spiritual  suicide,  is  mainly  the  result  of  her 
childlessness.  And  it  is  on  this  that  Euripides  lays  his 
finger.  "  Announce  that  I  have  given  birth  to  a  male 
child  ....  Then,  when  she  has  come,  of  course  it  is 
her  death."  This  plot  of  Electra  is  possibly  the  most 
brilliantly  skilful  and  most  terrible  stroke  in  all  the 
poet's  work.  It  indicates  the  source  of  her  heartlessness, 
it  provides  an  excellent  dramatic  motive  for  the  queen's 
arrival,  and  it  shows,  as  nothing  else  could  show,  the 
fiendishness  of  a  woman  who  can  use  just  this  pretext 
to  the  very  woman  who  gave  her  birth.  She  relies 
upon  the  sanctity  of  motherhood  to  aid  her  in  trampling 
upon  it.  Her  first  words,  as  she  slips  forth  to  join  her 
husband  beneath  the  star-lit  sky,  show  how  the  heavens 
themselves  remind  her  that  she  has  had  no  infant  at  her 
breast  during  the  night-watches  :  "  Black  Night,  thou 
Nurse  of  golden  stars".2  Moreover,  not  only  does  she 
feel  her  sorrows,  she  enjoys  the  sense  of  martyrdom. 
Her  wrongs  and  present  trials  she  is  capable  of  exagger- 
ating ; 8  at  every  opportunity  she  exploits  them  for 
purposes  of  self-pity,  as  her  husband  hints  more  than 


once.4 


Orestes,  living  in  exile,  has  escaped  the  blight  of 
Electra  only  to  become  a  criminal  with  no  illusions, 
proud  of  his  worldly  experience,  witness  the  blundering 
disquisition  on  "  the  true  gentleman,"  5  and  his  cynical 
comments  on  his  humble  brother-in-law.6  H  is  onslaught 
upon  ^gisthus  from  behind  proves  him  at  the  best 
deficient  in  gallantry,  and  on  the  matricide  itself  nothing 
need  be  said.  We  can  pity  Orestes  for  his  fearful 
position,  but  he  is  a  poor  creature.  The  Electra,  in 
fact,  is  a  clear-sighted  attack  upon  the  morality  of  blood- 
feuds.  The  poet  feels  that  ^gisthus  and  Clytaem- 

1  vv.  652-60.  a  v.  54. 

3  The  peasant  tells  us  that  Electra's  banishment  to  the  country  is  due 
to  her  mother's  efforts  when  yEgisthus  wished  to  kill  her  (vv.  25  sqq.}. 
Electra  puts  the  matter  very  differently  (vv.  60  sq.}.     The  horrible  story 
in  vv.  326  sqq.  is  probably  untrue  ;  cp.  o>r  Xryovo-tv. 

4  w.  77-8,  354  sq.  6  w.  367  sqq.  6  vv.  255  sqq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  257 

nestra,  left  so  long  unmolested,  should  have  been  left 
alone  still ;  if  Apollo  at  Delphi,  and  the  peasant  in  his 
Argive  cottage,  had  estimated  human  nature  more 
wisely,  this  horror  would  have  been  escaped,  and  no 
harm  done.  To  punish  the  guilty  is  not  always  a 
virtue ;  often  it  is  a  debauch  of  self-glory,  and  some- 
times the  worst  of  villainies. 

As  always,  the  poet  regards  the  "  oracle,"  which  com- 
manded matricide,  as  an  offence  to  civilization.  But 
there  is  novelty  in  the  extreme  candour  with  which  this 
is  put  forward.  The  Dioscuri  repeatedly  stigmatize 
its  murderous  command  as  "  foolishness "  or  worse.1 
Equally  outspoken  are  the  chorus,  who  devote  the  last 
stanza  of  their  lovely  song  on  the  Golden  Lamb  and 
Thyestes'  crime  to  a  brilliant  denial  of  its  truth.  .  .  .  "But 
legends  that  fill  men  with  dread  are  profitable  to  divine 
worship  " 2 — it  is  admirably  put,  and  may  rank  with  the 
epigrams  of  Ovid  3  and  Voltaire.4  As  for  the  Dioscuri, 
it  is  impossible  to  speak  without  affection  of  such  quaint 
and  charming  figures.  Their  converse  with  Electra 
and  the  chorus  is  an  irresistible  combination  of  dignity 
and  a  breezy  contempt  for  official  reticence.  In  his 
first  long  ex  cathedra  speech  Castor  is  on  the  verge  of 
saying  what  he  really  thinks  of  Phcebus  Apollo,  remem- 
bers himself  just  in  time,  and  then — gives  a  broad  hint 
after  all.5  In  the  less  formal  talk  which  follows,  these 
bluff  naval  deities  show  a  soundness  of  heart  and  a 
simplicity  as  to  the  meaning  of  great  affairs  which  recall 
delightfully  the  traditional  nautical  character  of  modern 
literature.  The  anguish  of  brother  and  sister  who 
after  long  years  meet  for  a  few  frightful  hours  only  to 
part  for  ever  awakes  their  instant  deep  sympathy.6  On 
the  other  side  these  subordinate  deities  are  assuredly 
in  a  maze  as  to  the  theological  problem  into  which  they 
have  strayed.  "  How  was  it,"  ask  the  Argive  women, 

1vv.  1294,  1296^.,  1302.  avv.  737-45- 

3  Expedit  esse  decs. 

4  "  If  God  did  not  exist,  it  would  be  necessary  to  invent  Him," 

5  vv.  1245  S7'  *  vv' 
17 


258  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

very  pertinently,  "  that  you,  being  gods  and  brothers 
of  the  woman  that  hath  perished,  did  not  repel  destruc- 
tion from  the  house  ?  "  Electra,  too,  would  know  why 
she  was  involved  in  the  matricide.  In  answer  the 
Brethren  offer  a  bundle  of  reasons  some  one  of  which 
ought  surely  to  be  right  :  "  the  fate  of  necessity,"  "  the 
guidance  of  doom,"  "the  foolish  utterances  of  Phoebus' 
tongue,"  "a  partnership  in  act  and  in  destiny,"  "the 
ancestral  curse  "-1  Even  if  traditional  phrases  could 
solve  the  problem  of  human  sin,  these  simple  souls  are 
not  qualified  to  use  or  expound  them. 

One  incident  in  the  Electra  is  of  particular  interest 
to  the  historian  of  literature.  The  peedagogus  seeks  to 
convince  Electra  that  the  mysterious  visitor  to  Aga- 
memnon's tomb  is  her  brother.  He  offers  certain  evi- 
dences which  she  contemptuously  rejects.  There  can  be 
no  doubt  that  this  scene  is  a  criticism  of  the  Recognition 
in  ^Eschylus'  Choepkorce.  The  severed  lock  of  hair,  the 
footprint,  and  the  embroidered  cloth,  appear  in  both 
scenes.  Electra  rejects  all  these  clues.  How  can  the 
hair  of  an  athletic  man  resemble  the  soft  tresses  of  a 
woman  ?  Is  not  a  man's  foot  larger  than  a  woman's  ? 
Will  the  full-grown  Orestes  wear  the  same  garment  as 
an  infant?  But  Euripides'  attack  is  probably  mistaken.2 
We  may  suppose  that  ^schylus  could  have  seen  these 
objections  ;  and  it  is  quite  possible  that  tradition  told  of 
physical  peculiarities  in  the  Pelopid  family.  As  for  the 
embroidered  garment,  y'Eschylus  does  not  call  it  so. 
It  may  well  have  been  a  cloth  preserved  by  Orestes. 
However  this  may  be,  we  have  here  the  most  distinct 
example  of  Euripides'  criticism  of  an  earlier  poet. 

HELEN  3  ('EXeV^),  or  Helena,  was  produced  in  41 2  B.C. 
The  scene  represents  the  palace  of  Theoclymenus,  the 

1  vv.  1301-7.  The  first  line,  polpd  r'  dvayKrjs  %yy  rj  TO  xpf<*>v,  is  an 
exceptionally  fine  instance  of  misty  verbiage. 

'2See  VerralFs  discussion  in  his  edition  of  the  Choephorae  (Introd.  pp. 
xxxiii-lxx). 

8  Probable  Arrangement :  protagonist,  Helen,  the  god  (whether  Castor 
or  Pollux) ;  deuteragonist,  Teucer,  Menelaus,  Egyptian  messenger  ;  tri- 
tagonist,  old  woman,  Greek  messenger,  Theonoe,  Theoclymenus. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  259 

young  Egyptian  king,  with  the  tomb  of  his  father  Pro- 
teus. Helen  relates  that  Hera  gave  Paris  a  phantom 
in  place  of  the  true  Helen.  While  Greeks  and  Trojans 
fought  for  a  wraith,  she  herself  has  lived  in  Egypt,  wait- 
ing for  Menelaus.  Theoclymenus  now  seeks  her  hand  ; 
she  has  taken  sanctuary  in  Proteus'  tomb.  Teucer 
enters  to  consult  Theonoe,  the  king's  prophetess-sister. 
On  seeing  Helen  he  barely  refrains  from  shooting  her, 
but  realizing  his  "  mistake  "  talks  with  the  stranger,  re- 
vealing that  Menelaus  and  "  Helen  "  have  apparently 
been  lost  at  sea.  Helen  sends  him  off  and  breaks  into 
lamentation  for  Menelaus,  but  is  advised  by  the  chorus 
of  captive  Greek  maidens  to  consult  the  omniscient 
Theonoe.  She  agrees,  and  they  accompany  her  into 
the  palace.  Menelaus  enters,  a  pitiable  shipwrecked 
figure.  He  has  left  "  Helen  "  and  his  comrades  in 
hiding,  and  is  looking  for  help.  When  he  knocks  at  the 
palace-door  the  portress  repels  him  with  the  warning 
that  the  king  is  hostile  to  Greeks  because  Helen  is 
within  his  house.  Menelaus  is  thunderstruck,  but  de- 
termines to  await  Theoclymenus.  The  chorus  and 
Helen  return  in  joy,  for  Menelaus,  they  learn,  still  lives. 
Menelaus  comes  forward  ;  after  a  moment  his  wife  re- 
cognizes and  would  embrace  him,  but  he  repels  the 
stranger.  One  of  his  companions  arrives  announcing 
that  "  Helen  "  has  vanished.  As  he  ends  his  tale  he 
sees  the  true  Helen,  who  he  supposes  has  played  a 
practical  joke  ;  but  Menelaus  falls  into  her  arms.  They 
plot  escape,  but  realize  that  all  depends  upon  the  omni- 
scient Theonoe  ;  she  comes  forth,  and,  explaining  that 
she  has  a  casting-vote  in  a  dispute  which  to-day  takes 
place  in  Heaven  between  Hera  and  Aphrodite,  decides 
to  aid  the  suppliants.  When  she  has  withdrawn  it  is 
arranged  that  Menelaus  shall  pretend  he  is  the  sole 
survivor,  Menelaus  being  drowned ;  Helen  is  to  gain 
permission  to  offer  funeral-rites  at  sea.  The  chorus 
raise  a  beautiful  song  concerning  Helen's  woes  and 
the  Trojan  war.  Theoclymenus  enters  and  is  easily 
hoodwinked.  After  an  ode  on  Demeter's  search  for 


260 

Persephone,  the  plotters  are  sent  on  their  way  by  the 
king.  The  chorus  sing  of  Helen's  voyage  and  pray  the 
Dioscuri  to  convoy  their  sister.  A  messenger  hurries 
in  and  tells  of  the  escape  ;  the  Egyptian  crew  has  been 
massacred  by  Menelaus'  followers.  Theoclymenus 
would  take  vengeance  upon  his  sister,  but  is  checked 
by  the  Dioscuri,  who  explain  that  all  has  occurred  by 
the  will  of  Zeus. 

Two  aspects  of  this  play  are  unmistakable  and  ap- 
parently incompatible.  The  plot  closely  resembles  that 
of  the  Iphigenia  in  Tauris ;  the  style  and  manner  of 
treatment  are  curiously  light.  What  can  have  been  Euri- 
pides' purpose  in  repeating,  after  so  short  an  interval,  a 
copy  of  that  grim  masterpiece,  and  to  execute  it  in  this 
light-hearted  fashion  ?  The  Helen  is  in  no  possible 
sense  a  tragedy.  At  the  point  where  the  audience 
should  be  spell-bound  by  suspense  and  dread — the 
cajoling  of  the  king — we  are  relieved  from  all  oppression 
by  the  facility  with  which  the  captives  succeed.  Theo- 
clymenus is  an  imbecile  who  gives  them  all  they  need 
with  his  eyes  shut.  The  earlier  action  is  robbed  of  all 
power  by  the  superhuman  attributes  of  Theonoe.  How 
can,  or  need,  Helen  have  any  doubts  concerning  her 
husband  with  an  all-knowing  friend  at  hand?  The 
central  datum,  that  only  a  phantom  fled  to  Troy  and 
returned  therefrom  with  Menelaus,  is  utterly  destructive 
of  tragic  atmosphere.  In  the  Recognition-scene  the  pos- 
sibility of  pathos  is  drowned  in  absurdity  :  the  messenger 
suddenly  turns  to  find  his  mistress  smiling  at  his  elbow 
and  greets  her  with  relief  :  "  Ah,  hail,  daughter  of  Leda, 
here  you  are  after  all !  "  *  Teucer's  scene,  besides  pro- 
viding a  palmary  instance  of  bad  construction  (for  his 
function  is  merely  to  cause  Helen  anxiety  about  her 
husband's  fate,  which  one  might  have  expected  to  arouse 
her  curiosity  earlier  in  the  course  of  these  seventeen 
years),  is  in  itself  absurd.  After  coming  all  this  distance 
to  consult  Theonoe  about  his  route,  he  is  sent  away 

dvyartp,  (V0d8*  rjaff  apa ; 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  261 

happy  (without  seeing  the  prophetess)  by  Helen's  sug- 
gestion, "  You  will  pick  out  your  way  as  you  go  along '  .* 
Equally  curious  is  the  diction.  Brilliantly  idiomatic  as 
are  the  iambics,  they  are  almost  everywhere  light,  loose 
in  texture,  almost  colloquial.  Such  things2  as  <j>ep  T\V 
Se  877  vu>v  /AT)  aTToSe^Tjrai  Xoyovs ; — fjv  yap  et^o/iei' 
6d\a.(T<T  e^ei — ets  yap  o  ye  Kar  ovpavovj  and  the  silly 
jingle  on  Xoy&>  daveiv,  are  typical  of  the  whole  atmos- 
phere. Even  the  lyrics  glow  with  prettiness  rather 
than  beauty  ;  lovely  as  are  the  Naiad  3  and  the  Nightin- 
gale 4  they  mitigate  in  no  degree  the  flimsiness  of  the 
whole. 

Theonoe  herself,  in  an  outrageous  passage,5  brings 
the  mockery  to  a  climax :  "  This  very  day  among  the 
gods  there  is  to  be  strife  and  conference  concerning 
thee  before  the  throne  of  Zeus.  Hera,  who  was  thine 
enemy  before,  is  kindly  to  thee  now,  and  would  bring 
thee  safe  to  thy  home-country  with  this  thy  wife,  so 
that  Greece  may  learn  how  Paris'  love,  the  gift  of 
Cypris,  was  but  a  mockery.  But  Cypris  would  fain 
deny  thee  thy  home-return,  that  it  may  never  come 
to  light  how  in  Helen's  case  she  bought  the  prize  of 
beauty  with  bridals  that  were  naught.  And  the 
decision  lies  with  me,  whether,  as  Cypris  wishes,  I  shall 
destroy  thee  by  revealing  thy  presence  to  my  brother, 
or  whether  I  shall  join  Hera  and  save  thy  life."  We 
should  be  ill-advised  to  take  this  in  all  earnest  as 
a  ludicrous  blasphemy.  It  is  graceful  trifling.  But 
what  is  Theonoe — a  dread  goddess  to  whom  the  queen 
of  Heaven  sues  for  aid,  or  a  kind-hearted  woman  whose 
strong  common-sense  might,  perhaps,  in  a  circle  like 
that  of  the  dolts  and  poseurs  who  fill  the  stage,  raise 
her  to  the  repute  of  superhuman  wisdom  ?  She  is 
not  all  playful.  When  the  honour  of  her  dead  father 
is  in  question,  she  stirs  the  heart  by  her  passionate 
solemnity  :— 

1v.  151.  2w.  832,  1048,  491,  1050-2. 

3vv.  183  sqq.  *vv.  1107  sqq.  *w.  878  sqq. 


262  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Aye,  all  that  lie  in  death  must  meet  their  bond, 
And  they  that  live  ;  yea,  all.     Beyond  the  grave 
The  mind,  though  life  be  gone,  is  conscious  yet 
Eternal,  with  th'  eternal  Heav'n  at  one.1 

This  stands,  together  with  Hecuba's  outburst2  in  the 
Trojan  Women,  as  the  most  explicit  statement  of 
personal  religion  in  the  extant  plays  of  Euripides.  In 
the  midst  of  this  farrago  of  fairy-tale  and  false  sentiment, 
it  is  doubly  startling.  The  drama  is  neither  tragedy, 
nor  melodrama,  nor  comedy,  nor  farce.  What  are  we 
to  think  of  it  ? 

Dr.  Verrall 3  would  regard  it  as  a  burlesque,  that 
is,  as  a  playful  imitation  of  serious  work,  with  ex- 
aggeration of  weak  features  or  tendencies.  From  the 
facts  that  one  ode4  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
the  plot,  but  with  the  Mother  and  the  Maid,  and 
that  Aristophanes  parodies  the  play  in  his  Celebrants 
of  tke  Thesmophoria,  wherein  Euripides  is  accused  of 
profaning  that  festival,  it  is  inferred  that  Helen  was 
not  written  for  public  presentation,  but  for  private 
performance  at  a  house  on  the  island  of  Helene  be- 
longing to  an  Athenian  lady.  The  occasion  was  a 
gathering  of  women  who  had  been  celebrating  the 
Thesmophoria,  and  forms  Euripides'  playful  answer 
to  the  charge  that  he  had  never  depicted  a  good 
woman.  To  prove  his  zeal,  he  chooses  Helen  (the 
least  reputable  of  her  sex)  and  completely  rehabilitates 
her  character.5  At  the  same  time  he  amuses  his 
audience  with  a  parody  of  his  own  work.  The  sanctuary 
of  Helen  recalls  that  of  Andromache,  and  the  escape 

1w.  1013-6  : — 


»cai  yap  Ttcrir  TU>VO  eon  roir  re  vtprtpois 
K.CU  TOIJ  avo>6(v  iracriv  av6pa>irois.      6  vovs 
T&v  fjj     fv  ov,     vu>r}v  8'  ffi 


aQavarov,  etr  ddavarov  aiBip"  (fnr«ru>v. 

The  precision  of  the  wording  is  remarkable. 
a  Troades,  884  sqq. 

3  See  Four  Plays  of  Euripides,  pp.  43-133  (Euripides1  Apology). 

4  vv.  1301  sqq. 

6  The  idea  is  taken  from  the  famous  recantation  of  Stesichorus,  which 
asserted  that  Helen  never  went  to  Troy. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  268 

that  of  Iphigenia  and  her  friends.  The  news  of  this 
tour  de  force  spread,  and  at  last,  owing  to  public 
curiosity,  it  was  exhibited  at  the  Dionysia. 

There  is  no  doubt  (i)  that  the  Helen  is  not  serious 
either  in  intention  or  execution  ;  (ii)  that  there  is  good 
evidence  for  supposing  a  connexion  between  the  play 
and  the  festival  of  the  Mother  and  the  Maid,  the 
Thesmophoria  ;  (iii)  that  Aristophanes'  jokes  about 
Proteus- Proteas  and  the  rest  do  support  the  view 
that  Euripides  has  in  his  mind  the  history  of  a  family 
who  have  nothing  to  do  with  Menelaus  and  Helen  ; 
(iv)  that  in  the  play  there  are  points,  such  as  "  Eido  " 
(the  baby-name  of  Theonoe),  which  are  irrelevant  to 
the  story.  Are  we,  then,  to  accept  Verrall's  account  ? 
The  sound  view  would  appear  to  be  that  Euripides 
offered  to  the  Archon  a  work  which  for  once  was  a 
burlesque.  So  sincere  a  thinker  as  Euripides  was  certain 
sooner  or  later  to  attack  himself,  at  any  rate  to  examine 
his  position  and  methods  with  humorous  detachment. 
So  far  we  may,  we  must,  go  with  Verrall ;  the  elaborate 
and  delightfully  detailed  development  we  can  hardly 
accept — the  evidence  is  not  sufficiently  strong. 

But  the  poet  is  making  fun  not  only  of  himself. 
The  false  Helen  and  her  disappearance  at  a  crisis  in 
the  action,  are  not  merely  miracles  of  a  type  in  which 
he  utterly  disbelieves  ;  they  are  features  which  even 
a  believer  would  remove  as  far  as  possible  into  the 
background.  In  handling  this  fairy-tale  with  such 
naivete",  he  is  possibly  laughing  at  some  indiscreet 
fellow-dramatist ; 1  certainly  he  is  ridiculing  the  popular 
belief  in  such  legends.  Helen  herself  cannot  credit 
the  tale  of  Leda  and  the  Swan.2  When  given  the 
choice  between  two  accounts  of  her  brothers'  fate, 
she  prefers  the  non-miraculous  version.3  Even  the 
dramatist's  own  dislike  of  soothsayers  is  elaborately 

1  In   the  inflated  affectation  of  such  things   as  vv.    355-6  and   629 
parody  of  some  contemporary  lyrist  is  quite  possible. 

2  w.  20-1,  256-9  (rejected  by  Murray,  after  Badham). 

3  vv.  138  sqq.j  205  sqq.,  284-5. 


264  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

expounded  by  the  Greek  messenger  and  sympathetically 
echoed  by  the  chorus,1  absurdly  enough  in  a  play  which 
contains  Theonoe,  whom  the  chorus  themselves  have 
induced  Helen  to  consult,  and  with  success ;  although 
of  course  Theonoe  knows  only  what  could  be  learned 
by  listening  to  the  talk  of  Menelaus. 

The  PucENLSSjE2  (<£oti'icrcrcu),  or  Phoenician  Women, 
was  produced  about  the  year  410  B.C.  The  action  takes 
place  before  the  palace  of  Thebes.  Jocasta  explains 
that  the  blind  CEdipus  is  kept  prisoner  there  by  his  sons 
Eteocles  and  Polynices,  whom  he  has  therefore  cursed 
with  a  prayer  that  they  may  divide  their  inheritance  with 
the  sword.  They  have  arranged  to  rule  for  a  year  by 
turns  ;  but  Eteocles,  at  the  end  of  his  term,  has  refused  to 
retire  and  Polynices  has  brought  an  army  against  Thebes. 
Jocasta  has  arranged  that  the  brothers  shall  meet.  When 
she  has  gone,  a  paedagogus  shows  the  Argive  host  to 
Antigone  from  the  roof.  Next  the  chorus  appear,  a 
band  of  Phoenician  maidens  who  sing  of  their  voyage 
and  of  Delphi,  their  destination.  Polynices  stealthily 
enters  and  is  greeted  rapturously  by  his  mother  ;  Eteocles 
follows,  and  the  brothers  quarrel  bitterly  and  finally. 
The  chorus  sing  of  Cadmus  and  the  harvest  of  warriors. 
Eteocles  comes  forth  and  is  advised  by  Creon  to  post 
a  champion  at  each  of  the  seven  gates.  He  agrees, 
ratifies  the  betrothal  of  Antigone  to  Haemon,  and  bids 
Creon  consult  Tiresias  as  to  the  hope  of  victory  ;  if 
Polynices  falls  he  is  not  to  be  buried  in  Theban  ground. 
The  chorus  sing  to  Ares  who  has  filled  the  land  with 
war  in  place  of  the  delightful  Dionysiac  worship  ;  they 
celebrate  the  wondrous  history  of  Thebes.  Tiresias 
enters  with  Creon's  son  Menceceus,  and  declares  that 
victory  can  be  won  only  if  the  youth  is  sacrificed. 
Creon  arranges  to  send  his  son  away,  but  Menceceus 
resolves  to  slay  himself.  The  next  ode  celebrates  the 

lvv.  744-60. 

a  Arrangement  (according  to  Croiset) :  protagonist,  Jocasta,  Creon; 
deuteragonist,  Antigone,  Polynices,  Menoeceus ;  tritagonist,  paedagogus, 
Eteocles,  Tiresias,  messengers,  CEdipus. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  265 

Sphinx,  the  tale  of  CEdipus,  and  Menceceus'  nobility. 
A  messenger  brings  to  Jocasta  tidings  that  her  sons  are 
about  to  engage  in  single  combat ;  she  hurries  to  the  spot 
with  Antigone.  After  a  brief  ode  of  suspense,  Creon  re- 
turns mourning  for  his  dead  son,  and  another  messenger 
tells  at  length  how  Polynices,  Eteocles,  and  Jocasta  have 
died.  Thebes  has  won  complete  victory.  The  corpses 
are  brought  in,  followed  by  Antigone,  who  summons 
the  aged  QEdipus.  Together  they  bewail  the  dead  till 
Creon  breaks  in  and  decrees  that  Antigone  must  marry 
Haemon,  CEdipus  go  into  exile,  and  Polynices  remain 
unburied.  Antigone  defies  him :  she  will  bury  her 
brother,  she  will  not  marry  Haemon,  but  will  share  her 
father's  exile.  CEdipus  as  they  depart  asserts  his  great- 
ness as  the  Conqueror  of  the  Sphinx. 

This  work  was  immensely  popular  in  antiquity.1  It 
was  repeatedly  "revived"  ;  ancient  authors  quote  from 
it  often  ;  together  with  the  Hecuba  and  the  Orestes  it 
formed  the  final  selection  of  Euripides'  work  made  in 
Byzantine  times  ;  and  the  scholia  are  extremely  copious. 
Because  of  its  popularity,  the  play  was  considerably 
expanded  by  interpolation.  It  is  no  mere  question  of 
isolated  lines  inserted  by  actors  or  copyists,  though  such 
appear  to  be  numerous  ;  considerable  masses  are  due  to 
a  later  poet  or  poets. 

The  following   passages 2  are  generally  suspected  : 

(i)  vv.  88-20 1,  the  scene  of  Antigone  and  her 
attendant  upon  the  roof-terrace.  To  this  it  has  been 
objected 3  that  the  entrance  of  Polynices  should  occur  as 
the  first  event  of  the  play  after  the  closing  words  of  the 
prologue  which  mention  his  expected  arrival.  This 
passage  contains,  moreover,  a  number  of  words  otherwise 
unknown  which  is  enormous  considering  the  length  of 
the  scene,  and  several  awkward  or  strained  expressions. 

(ii)  vv.  1104-40,  the  description  of  the  seven  chief- 
tains as  they  advance  upon  the  gates.  It  is  "full  of 

1  Perhaps  one  reason  was  the  great  sweep  of  story  which  it  covers. 

2  See  Mr.  J.  U.    Powell's  careful  and  lucid   account  in   his  edition 
(pp.  7-32). 

3  Verrall,  Eur.  the  Rationalist,  pp.  236  sq. 


266  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

obscurities  and  difficulties,"  *  particularly  two  elaborate 
yet  frivolous  descriptions  of  shields.  Moreover,  it  prac- 
tically repeats  the  terrace-scene  ;  both  passages  can 
hardly  be  genuine. 

(iii)  1223-58  (or  1282),  the  messenger's  account  of 
preparations  for  the  single  combat,  followed  by  the 
dialogue  in  which  Jocasta  calls  Antigone  to  accompany 
her  to  the  field.  Not  only  are  there  marked  faults  of 
style  ;  2  it  is  impossible,  considering  the  urgency  3  of 
the  news,  that  the  queen  should  stay  for  this  tedious 
narrative.  Jocasta's  conversation  with  Antigone  is  by 
no  means  so  objectionable.  It  is  very  short,  and  the 
style  is  not  unworthy  4  of  Euripides.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
strange  that  the  queen  should  wait  for  her  daughter  at 
so  urgent  a  time. 

(iv)  the  end  of  the  drama,  though  at  what  point 
the  addition  begins  is  not  agreed.  The  last  address  of 
CEdipus  which  opens  thus  5  : 

2>  Trdrpas  KXfivtjs  irdXtTai,  Xeuo'errr',  OtStVour  SSt, 
or  TO.  K\fiv'  alviyiiar'  ryvo>  ical  fj,fyi(rros  yv  dvfjp, 

unmistakably  recalls  part  of  the  finale  in  CEdipus  Tyran- 
nus:6 

a>  irdrpas  Qqfirjs  fvoucoi,  \(  vcrorr',  Ol&iirovs  ode, 
6f  ra  »cAeiV  alviyfuer'  178*1  >cat  Kpdricrros  T)V  dvffp. 


If  we  accept  the  customary  date  of  Sophocles'  play 
(405  B.C.),  it  was  produced  after  Euripides'  death. 
Further,  the  whole  scene  of  CEdipus,  Antigone,  and 
Creon  has  evidently  been  expanded  and  distorted. 
According  to  one  version,  that  followed  by  Sophocles 
in  the  Antigone,  the  maiden  remained  in  Thebes  after 
the  battle  and  buried  Polynices  ;  according  to  the 

1  Mr.  J.  U.  Powell,  whose  edition  should  be  consulted. 

2  vv.  1233  sq.  :  — 

vftfts  8'  dyS>v'  dfpfvrfs,  '.\py(1oi,  \66va 
vio"f<rdf,  fiioTov  /iij  Xmovrts  tvddftt, 

are  out  of  the  question  as  work  of  Euripides.  There  are  several  other 
faults. 

a  vv.  1259  sqq. 

4  Mr.  Powell,  however,  rightly  remarks  that  vv.  1265-6  are  "  strained  ". 
.  8w. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  267 

(Edipus  Coloneus  she  accompanied  her  father  into  exile. 
Here  the  two  versions  are  combined.  Moreover,  from 
the  entrance  of  GEdipus  onwards  the  play  abounds  once 
more  in  unnatural  or  unusual  turns  of  speech.  And  it 
may  be  thought  a  serious  mistake  to  bring  the  aged 
sufferer  forth  at  all,1  thus  creating  a  new  interest  at  the 
last  moment  of  a  play  crowded  with  incident.  But 
though  this  portion  contains  much  unauthentic  work,  it 
appears  to  be  intermingled  with  the  genuine. 

Certain  other  passages  are  open  to  suspicion,  es- 
pecially Jocasta's  prologue  and  the  remainder — hitherto 
unmentioned — of  the  first  messenger's  speech.2  We  ap- 
pear to  have  Euripides'  prologue,  padded  out  by  another 
hand.  The  same  kind  of  recurrent  weakness  and  flat- 
ness marks  the  messenger's  speech.  Above  all,  when 
the  speaker  seeks  to  rise  to  the  occasion,  his  efforts  result 
in  this  : 3  "  From  the  scaling-ladder  his  limbs  were  hurled 
asunder  like  sling-stones — his  hair  to  Heaven,  his  blood 
to  earth;  his  arms  and  legs  whirled  round  like  Ixion's 
wheel  ".  This  imbecile  bombast  is  fortunately  without 
parallel  in  Attic  tragedy. 

It  seems  likely  that  Euripides'  work  was  in  quite  early 
times  (probably  the  fourth  century)  expanded  by  another 
poet,  whose  main  contribution  was  a  large  addition  to 
the  messengers'  speeches  at  a  date  when  yEschylus  was 
little  enough  known  to  allow  such  things  as  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  hostile  champions  a  good  degree  of  novelty. 
The  new  text  was  in  its  turn  enlarged  by  accretions  due 
to  actors.4 

1  So  the  scholiast  :  o  rt  eVt  Trao-t  fi.fr  a>fii)f  aSoXe'a-^ou  <pvya8(vop,eitos 
OtfiiVovs  TTpocreppaTrrat  5ta  Kfvrjs. 

8  vv.  1090-1199  (the  pfia-is  containing  the  description  of  the  Seven). 

3vv.  1182  sqq. 

4  Verrall  (Eur.  the  Rationalist,  pp.  231-60)  believed  that  those  parts 
which  introduce  Antigone  are  un-Euripidean.  The  terrace-scene  has  al- 
ready been  discussed.  In  the  body  of  the  play,  as  he  argues  with  much 
point,  wherever  mention  of  Antigone  occurs,  it  is  obtrusive  and  embarras- 
sing. Her  lament  with  CEdipus  at  the  close  contains  many  inappropriate 
features.  He  concludes  that  CEdipus  is  an  allegory  of  Euripides  himself, 
leaving  Athens  in  sorrow  at  the  end  of  his  life,  and  that  Antigone  repre- 
sents his  literary  offspring,  the  plays.  The  Sphinx  is  "the  spirit  of 


268  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Euripides'  own  work  is  vigorous  and  interesting,1  a 
stirring  scene  of  warfare,  patriotism,  and  strong  passions, 
which,  in  its  present  expanded  form,  reminds  one  by 
its  spirit  and  its  popularity  of  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy, 
the  first  favourite  of  Elizabethan  audiences. '2  The  two 
brothers  are  well  distinguished,  Polynices  by  his  pathetic 
sense  that  intolerable  wrong  is  urging  him  against  his 
will  into  crime,  Eteocles  by  a  dark  fervour  of  ambition 
which  has  grown  upon  his  soul  like  religion  ;  and  their 
terrible  altercation  in  the  sweeping  trochaic  metre  is  equal 
to  anything  of  the  kind  in  Euripides  for  terse  idiomatic 
vigour.  Jocasta's  passionate  joy  when  she  sees  her 
exiled  son,3  joy  which  stiis  her  aged  feet  to  trip  in  a 
dance  of  fond  rapture,*  provides  the  one  light-hearted 
moment.  And  her  noble  speech  of  reconciliation 5  is  the 
single  great  achievement  of  the  drama. 

The  ORESTES6  ('Opeo-Tr)s)  was  produced  in  408  B.C. 
and  again  in  341. 7  It  was  extremely  popular,  and  formed 
with  the  Phcenissce  and  the  Hecuba  the  final  selection 
of  Euripides'  work  made  in  Byzantine  times  ;  but  the 
later  interpolations  are  probably  few.  The  scene  is  laid 
before  the  palace  at  Argos.  Orestes  and  Electra,  having 
slain  Clytsemnestra  and  ^Egisthus,  are  imprisoned  in 
their  own  house  by  the  Argive  state,  which  will  to-day 
decide  whether  they  are  to  be  stoned  to  death.  Orestes 

mystery  and  darkness,"  which  the  poet  has  fought  and  quelled.  All  this 
was  composed  by  a  poet  of  the  Euripidean  circle  to  commemorate  the 
master  ;  it  includes  a  compliment — the  quotation  from  the  (Edipus  Tyran- 
nus — to  Sophocles,  who  had  shown  public  respect  to  his  rival  when  the 
news  of  his  death  reached  Athens. 

1  One  notices  the  criticism  (w.  751  sq.}  of  ^schylus,  Septem  (vv.  375 
sqq.}  when  Eteocles  declares  that  to  give  a  list  of  his  champions  would 
be  waste  of  time. 

2  The  "  popular  "  character  of  the  Phainisscz  is  brought  out  by  the 
relish  with  which  the  Argument  enumerates  its  murderous  happenings. 

3  In  this  passage  an  allusion  has  by  some  been  supposed  to  Alci- 
biades'  return  to  Athens  (411  B.C.). 

4  Cp.  VV.  302  sq.  (yrjpaibv  ir68'  <X/c<a)  with  V.  316  (jrcpi^opevovora). 
8  w.  528  sqq. 

6  Croiset    gives   the   probable   arrangement :    protagonist,    Orestes, 
messenger ;    deuteragonist,    Electra,    Menelaus,    Phrygian ;    tritagonist, 
Helen,  Tyndareus,  Pylades,  Hermione,  Apollo. 

7  See  Murray's  text. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  269 

has  been  tormented  by  madness  and  is  now  seen  asleep, 
watched  by  Electra ;  she  hopes  that  they  may  yet  be 
saved  by  Menelaus,  who  has  come  home  with  Helen. 
The  latter  enters  and  requests  Electra  to  go  for  her  to 
Clytaemnestra's  tomb  with  drink-offerings  ;  she  is  per- 
suaded to  send  her  daughter  Hermione  instead.  The 
chorus  of  Argive  ladies  now  enter,  and  their  voices 
awaken  Orestes.  Then  follows  a  wonderful  scene  of 
affectionate  tendance  and  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  the 
sufferer  ;  the  chorus  sing  of  the  Furies  and  the  agony 
through  which  the  house  is  passing.  Menelaus  enters 
and  Orestes  passionately  implores  his  aid.  Tyndareus 
(father  of  Helen  and  Clytaemnestra)  arrives  and  de- 
nounces the  cowering  Orestes  :  why  did  he  not  invoke 
the  law  against  his  mother?  The  youth's  long 
speech  of  exculpation  further  incenses  Tyndareus. 
When  he  has  departed,  Orestes  again  appeals  to  Mene- 
laus, who  points  out  that  the  only  hope  lies  in  the 
Argive  Assembly.  Orestes  watches  him  go  with  con- 
tempt, but  is  cheered  by  the  arrival  of  Pylades,  who 
throws  in  his  lot  with  his  friend,  and  the  two  walk  off 
to  the  Assembly.  The  chorus  sing  the  story  of  the 
house  and  lament  the  matricide.  A  messenger  brings 
to  Electra  an  account  of  the  debate,  which  ended  with 
permission  to  the  criminals  to  die  by  their  own  hand. 
Electra  pours  forth  a  lyric  of  painful  beauty  until  the 
two  youths  return.  Pylades  declares  that  he  too  will 
die,  but  suggests  vengeance  on  Menelaus  :  let  them  slay 
Helen.  Electra  proposes  that  Hermione  be  held  as  a 
hostage  whereby  Menelaus  may  be  induced  to  save  them. 
The  two  men  go  within  to  despatch  Helen,  whose 
shrieks  are  soon  heard.  Meanwhile  Electra  receives 
Hermione,  who  is  dragged  within.  A  Phrygian  slave 
flings  himself  in  terror  from  a  hole  high  up  in  the  house- 
front  ;  in  a  strange  lyric  narrative,  he  tells  how  amid  the 
confusion  Helen  has  vanished.  Orestes  rushes  forth  in 
pursuit,  but  he  is  now  insane  and  the  slave  contrives  to 
escape.  Orestes  goes  back,  and  in  a  moment  the  house 
is  on  fire.  Menelaus  rushes  in  distraught,  and  sees 


270  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Orestes  on  the  battlements  with  his  sword  at  Hermione's 
throat.  A  frantic  altercation  arises,  until  Menelaus  cries 
to  the  citizens  for  a  rescue.  Apollo  appears  and  bids 
the  quarrel  cease.  Helen  is  to  become  a  sea -goddess  ; 
Electra  shall  marry  Py lades,  and  Hermione  Orestes, 
who  is  to  stand  his  trial  at  Athens  ;  Apollo  will  reconcile 
him  to  the  Argive  state. 

To  appreciate  this  masterpiece,  we  must  realize  that 
Euripides,  who  so  often  insists  on  considering  tradition 
in  the  light  of  his  own  day,  has  here  insisted  on  that 
principle  even  more  definitely  than  elsewhere.  Certain 
legendary  data  are,  to  be  sure,  retained.  Troy  has  fallen 
but  a  few  years  ago  ;  Iphigenia  was  offered  by  her  father 
as  a  sacrifice  at  Aulis.  Otherwise  the  events  described 
might  have  occurred  in  the  fifth  century.  Agamemnon, 
though  a  noble  of  great  eminence,  was  not  a  king  l  ; 
Argos  is  ruled  by  an  Assembly  not  distinguishable  from 
the  Athenian  Ecclesia.  The  youth  who  exacts  ven- 
geance with  his  own  hand  is  told  in  language  which 
might  have  been  employed  by  Pericles,  that  the  vendetta 
is  an  outrage  upon  law  and  society  ;  punishment  for 
crime  rests  with  the  State  alone.2  The  behest  of  Apollo, 
all-important  in  the  Choephorce,  is  not  even  mentioned 
in  the  discussion  which  decides  the  fate  of  Orestes. 
The  oracle  is  indeed  treated  with  scant  courtesy  even  by 
those  most  concerned  to  uphold  it  ;  Electra  complains 
of  the  god's  "wickedness,"3  and  her  brother  "blames 
Loxias  "  for  urging  him  to  a  villainous  deed  and  then 
giving  no  aid.4  The  atmosphere  is  one  in  which  the 
slaughter  of  Clytaemnestra  must  be  regarded  with  horror 
and  the  traditional  defence  of  Orestes  as  unthinkable. 
This  is  not  a  theological  study,  but  a  dramatic  essay  in 
criminal  psychology. 

In  Orestes  the  playwright  has  given  us  one  of  his 
most  terrible  portraits.  Highly  sensitive,  weak-minded, 
over-educated  in  a  bad  school,  he  is  unbalanced  by  the 
horror  of  his  father's  death  and  by  the  oracular  com- 

1  w.  1167  sqq.  2vv.  491-525.  3  vv.  28  sqq. 

*  vv.  285  sqq.     Menelaus  (v.  417)  casually  calls  Apollo  "  stupid  ". 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  271 

mand  which  has  blasted  his  life.  In  the  magnificent 
sick-bed  scene  he,  like  his  sister,  fills  us  with  nothing 
but  pity.  But  the  calmer  he  becomes  the  more  are  we 
filled  with  loathing  for  this  pedant  of  eighteen,  with  his 
syllogisms  justifying  murder,  his  parade  of  rhetoric, 
his  hopeless  inability  to  grasp  a  situation.  Rich  as  is 
the  world's  drama  in  villains,  Orestes  occupies  a  place 
conspicuous.  He  has  little  heart  and  no  sense.  Both 
failings  are  common.  But  that  both  heart  and  brain 
should  be  replaced  by  a  factitious  perverse  cleverness, 
an  incredibly  superficial  passion  for  scoring  logical  points 
against  opponents  who  have  in  hand  urgent  interests  of 
real  life — this  grips  us  irresistibly.  He  is  an  example 
of  the  wreck  produced  by  a  highly  specialized  mental 
training  which  has  ignored  character.  His  first  address 
to  Menelaus  strikes  the  note  : — 

Freely  will  I  divulge  my  woes  to  thee. 
But  as  the  first-fruits  of  my  plight,  I  touch 
Thy  knees,  a  suppliant,  tying  prayer  the  while 
To  thy  unleafed  lips.  .  .  -1 

This  affected  and  obscure  exordium  is  followed  by 
verbal  subtleties  at  every  opportunity :  "  through  my 
sorrows  I  live  not,  yet  see  the  light"  2 — "my  deeds,  not 
my  appearance,  ravage  me  " 3 — "  my  body's  gone,  my 
name  alone  remains  ".4  But  all  this  is  nothing  to  the 
detestable  exhibition  wherewith  he  answers  the  aged 
Tyndareus.  To  the  vital  point — that  Clytsemnestra 
should  have  been  brought  before  a  legal  tribunal — he 
makes  no  reply  whatever.  His  only  difficulties  are  that 
Tyndareus  is  wounded  to  the  soul  by  his  daughter's 
death,  and  that  he  is  far  older  than  Orestes.  What  is 
to  be  done?  Simply  to  "contract  out  of"  natural  feel- 
ings so  that  the  way  may  be  clear  for  pure  logic : — 

True,  matricide  doth  taint  me,  yet  again 
Pure  am  I,  for  my  sire  I  did  avenge. 
Therefore  let  thy  great  age  be  set  aside 

1  vv.  380  sqq.  a  v.  386.  8  v.  388.  4  v.  390. 


272  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

From  this  our  conference,  for  it  puts  me  out ; 
And  let  me  on — 'tis  but  thy  hair  I  dread.1 

There  follows  a  frigid  "statement"  -"balance  two 
against  two  " 2 — of  his  father's  claim  and  his  mother's 
offences,  and  of  his  own  glorious  achievement  in  puri- 
fying social  life.  The  original  sinner  is  Tyndareus 
himself  who  begot  so  vile  a  daughter  !  He  ends  by  an 
appeal  to  Apollo's  behest,  and  a  pompous  comment  on 
the  importance  of  marriage. 

The  aged  Spartan  having  given  his  grandson  over 
to  justice  as  irreclaimable,  the  youth  turns  to  Menelaus, 
whom  he  insists  on  regarding  as  his  real  hope,  in  spite 
of  Menelaus'  plain  reluctance  and  extreme  unpopu- 
larity in  Argos.  He  is,  moreover,  unwilling  to  endure 
another  display  :  "  Let  me  be  ;  I  am  reflecting.  .  .  ." 3 
At  all  times  he  is  impatient  of  subtleties  ;  in  the  first 
moments  of  their  meeting  he  asks  his  accomplished 
nephew :  "  What  mean  you  ?  Wisdom  is  shown  not 
by  obscurity,  but  by  plain  speech." 4  But  now  that 
Orestes  has  his  chance,  he  refuses  to  suffer  Menelaus' 
"  reflections,"  and  with  a  warning  that  "  a  long  address 
is  better  than  a  short  one,  and  easier  for  the  auditor  to 
follow"5  produces  a  masterpiece  of  metallic  clever- 
ness which  presses  Seneca  himself  very  hard  ;  perhaps 
the  finest  gem  is  the  offer  of  Hermione  as  a  kind  of 
discount.6  Before  the  Assembly  he  succeeds  in  com- 
bining several  insanely  tactless  insults  to  the  Argives  : 
they  are  "  possessors,"  not  original  citizens,  of  the  land  ; 
they  were  Pelasgians  at  first,  but  later  "  Danaidae,"  de- 
scendants of  the  women  who  slew  their  husbands  ;  and 
he  has  killed  his  mother  as  much  for  their  sake  as  his 
father's.7  But  Euripides'  most  frightful  satire  on  "  ad- 
vanced education  "  is  reserved  for  the  nightmare  of  the 
close,  where  the  raving  Orestes  leans  down  over  the 

1  vv.  544  sqq.     The  flatness  of  the  translation  given  above  is  not,  I 
think,  inappropriate,     vvv  8t  <rr)v  rap^Sa  Tpi%a  (v.  550),  is  merely  hideous, 
oi?  TOV  (\(ov  6r)pu>p.(vai  (v.  568),  is  even  worse. 
Jv.  551.  sv.  634.  4  v.  397. 

8  w.  640  sq.  8  w.  658-61.  7  w.  932  sqq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  273 

battlement  to  the  grief- maddened  Menelaus  and  begins 
by  a  lunatic  reminiscence  of  the  "  Socratic  method": 
"  will  you  be  the  questioner  or  the  respondent  ?  " 

Prig  as  he  is,  Orestes  has  nevertheless  some  elements 
of  nobility  at  the  first.  He  can  tell  his  uncle  plainly 
that  his  disease  is  "  conscience,  which  convicts  me  for 
a  criminal  "  ; 2  he  shows  real  regard  for  Electra  ;  the 
splendidly  selfless  friendship  between  him  and  Pylades 
stirs  every  one.  As  the  play  advances,  however,  we  are 
lost  in  the  loathing  and  breathless  wonder  wherewith  we 
gaze  upon  the  increasing  insanity  of  the  wretched  prince.3 
Each  moment  he  becomes  more  vigorous  and  more  lost 
to  sense  of  right ;  when  Electra  suggests  the  vilest  part 
of  the  plot — the  seizure  of  Hermione — he  breaks  forth 
into  a  cry  like  Macbeth's :  "  Bring  forth  men-children 
only  !  "  * 

Electra  has  been  the  chief  definite  cause  of  Orestes' 
fall.  Amazingly  vivid,  she  fills  the  whole  drama  with 
a  thin  acrid  fume  of  malice.  Her  ruling  passion  is  not 
mere  hatred  against  Clytsemnestra.  That  bitterness 
has  spread  until  (saving  her  tenderness  for  Orestes) 
there  is  nothing  in  her  but  a  narrow  viperishness. 
When  an  innocent  like  Hermione  draws  near,  the  fang 
strikes  by  instinct.  Her  intensity  of  feeling  and  her 
years  have  made  her  Orestes'  monitor  long  before  he 
returned  home,  and  it  is  she  to  whom  Tyndareus  points, 
in  searing  language,  as  the  more  guilty.5  Another 
influence  has  soured  her,  that  lack  of  husband  and 
children  on  which  Helen,  with  the  brutality  so  frequent 
in  shallow  natures,  insists  at  their  first  meeting.6  But 
Electra  has  vastly  more  common-sense  than  her  brother 

1  V.  1576  :    iroTtpov  fptarav  f]  K\vfiv  fftov  6(\fis  ; 
2v.  396. 

3  His  "  progression,  upward  in  strength  and  downward  in  reason,  is 
visible  throughout,"  says  Dr.  Verrall  (Four  Plays,  p.  245),  whose  eloquent 
and  vivid  essay  on  this  drama  should  be  carefully  studied. 

4  w.  1204  sqq.  :   &  ras  (pptvas  p.ev  ap<rtvas  KfKrrjpfvr)  .   .  . 
8vv.  615  sqq. 

8vv.  72-92.     Compare  the  amusing  little  passage-of-arms,  vv.  107-11 
(see  Verrall,  Four  Plays,  pp. 
18 


274  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

or  Pylades,  and  it  is  to  her  that  the  delightful  comment 
on  Helen  is  given  : 1 

Ah,  Nature  !  .  .  . 

Saw  ye  how  tiny  was  that  tress  she  cut, 

Sparing  her  beauty  ?     'Tis  the  old  Helen  still ! 

But   her   sense   of  humour    cannot  sustain    her    heart 
long: 

Heaven's  hatred  seize  thee  !     Thou  hast  wrought  the  fall 
Of  me,  and  this  my  brother,  and  of  Greece. 

These  two  women,  so  pungently  contrasted  in  one 
brief  scene,  share,  however,  one  attribute — -that  nerveless 
theology  which  Euripides  detested  as  rotting  the  moral 
fibre.  Electra  muses  upon  "  suffering  and  disaster  sent 
by  Heaven  ".2  Helen  attributes  her  elopement  with 
Paris  to  the  "  maddening  doom  of  Heaven,"  8  which  has 
also  "  destroyed  this  hapless  pair  " 4 — her  nephew  and 
niece.  The  latter  in  her  lyric  outcry  explores  5  all  the 
legends  of  her  line  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  present 
disaster,  a  method  which  the  chorus,  for  all  their  sym- 
pathy, indeed  complicity,6  seem  to  parody  by  the 
ludicrous  baldness  of  their  reflection  that  this  horror  of 
fiends  and  bloodshed  has  fallen  upon  the  house  "  because 
Myrtilus  fell  out  of  the  chariot  "  !  ' 

All  the  minor  characters  are  skilfully  drawn — 
Pylades,  the  warm-hearted  scatter-brained  ruffian  who 
conceives  the  murder  of  Helen  as  soon8  as  he  learns 
that  she  is  in  his  friend's  house  ;  Tyndareus,  the  hot- 
tempered,  affectionate  old  king  ;  Menelaus,  the  vulgar 
and  successful,  who  has  no  other  ambition  than  to  let 
bygones  be  bygones 9  and  who  has  actually  expected  to 
find  Orestes  and  Clytsemnestra  sharing  the  same  home, 

1  vv.  \26sqq.  avv.  1-3.  3vv.  78  sg. 

4  v.  121.  6w.  <)(>o  sqg. 

8  At  v.  1539  (very  late  in  the  day)  they  discuss  whether  it  is  their 
duty  to  inform  the  State  of  the  murderous  plot  against  Helen  and 
Hermione.  Even  then  they  decide  to  do  nothing. 

7  vv.  1 547  sqq. 

8  Note  vv.  743,  745,  747,  749,  and  the  excitement  in  the  last  two 
verses. 

9  vv.  48 1  sqq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  275 

quite  comfortable  after  the  death  of  Agamemnon  ; l 
Helen,  that  faded,  facile  creature,  who  cannot  abstain 
from  conversation,  even  with  murderesses  if  there  is  no 
one  else.  Hermione,  minute  as  is  her  part,  commands 
our  affection,  not  only  because  of  the  vile  complot  which 
centres  round  her,  but  for  the  shy  graciousness  of  the 
little  she  does  say,  TJKM  \aj3ovcra  irpevn.evet.av  2  and  the 
rest ;  she  seems  to  have  strayed  from  some  sunlit  lost 
drama  by  Sophocles. 

The  religious  sanction  which  for  Sophocles  had 
been  the  background  of  Orestes'  story  and  which  for 
^Eschylus  provided  the  most  vital  part  of  the  action, 
has  in  Euripides'  hands  become,  as  it  were,  a  small, 
rather  shabby  stage-property  hung  upon  the  back-scene. 
Those  Avenging  Spirits  who  hunt  the  matricide  are 
now  called  "  frenzies  " 3  by  his  sister,  and  in  the 
anxiously  precise  account 4  which  Menelaus  elicits  from 
his  nephew,  it  becomes  plain  that  the  three  "  maidens 
like  night  "  are  an  hallucination  ;  any  unfettered 
intercourse  between  them  and  ordinary  men  is 
out  of  the  question.  Traditional  belief  itself  tells 
rather  against  their  divinity  than  for  it.5  Another 
stage  property  is  the  incidental  miracle.  Menelaus 
at  Malea  was  addressed  by  the  "  prophet  of  Nereus, 
Glaucus,  truthful  god,"  who  told  him  of  his  brother's 
death.6  When  we  learn  that  at  Nauplia  he  heard  of 
Clytaemnestra's  death  but  from  "some  mariner,"7  we 
surmise  that  "  Glaucus"  too  was  human.8  The  second 
miracle  is  that  related9  by  the  Phrygian  slave  ;  Helen 
vanished,  "  either  by  spells  or  the  tricks  of  wizards  or 

!w.  371  sqq.  av.  1323.  3  vv.  37  sqq.  4vv.  395^^. 

9  Contrast  v.  420  :  /zeXXet  •  TO  Qtiov  8'  e'ori  TOIOVTOV  <£vcr« ;  with  v.  423  : 
if  ra\v  fjifTTJXdov  or'  ulfjia  (jujrepos  dfai. 

8  w.  360  sqq.  7  v.  373. 

8  First  Menelaus  says  that  Glaucus  spoke  to  him  "  from  the  waves  " 
(v.  362),  but  from  v.  365  (epQav&s  narcurradfis)  it  seems  that  the  person 
is  standing  on  the  shore.  Such  inconsistencies  are  significant,  and  in 
Euripides  common.  They  indicate  how  much  accuracy  the  narrator 
commands. 

9vv. 


276  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

stolen  by  Heaven  ".  Helen  has  only  hidden  herself  ;  the 
Phrygian  is  crazed  by  excitement  and  terror.  But  the 
miracle  of  Helen  is  vouched  for  by  a  more  august 
witness,  Apollo,  who  asserts  that  he  has  saved  her  from 
Orestes'  sword.  Thus  we  arrive  at  the  final  triumph  of 
orthodox  religion,  the  epilogue  in  which  the  Delphian  god 
stays  at  a  word  the  vengeance  of  Argos  and  the  quarrel 
between  Menelaus  and  Orestes.  In  the  reality  of  this 
epilogue  we  shall  believe  according  as  we  find  it  credible 
that  Euripides  could  destroy  all  the  effect  of  his  own 
play.  All  the  action,  all  the  atmosphere,  which  the 
dramatist  has  created,  are  rent  by  an  utter  breach.  The 
objection  is  not  so  much  that  Apollo  and  his  speeches 
are  in  themselves  absurd,  though  the  consolation  offered 
to  Menelaus,  that  Helen  throughout  their  married  life 
has  given  him  endless  trouble,1  is  (however  true)  dis- 
tasteful. What  jars  hopelessly  is  the  monstrous  dis- 
continuity of  event  and  emotion.  As  elsewhere,  this 
orthodox  Olympian  and  his  epilogue  are  a  sham, 
devised  to  suit  the  demands  of  an  audience  which 
"knew"  how  Orestes  went  forth  from  Argos  to  Athens. 
The  real  drama  ends  with  the  wild  breakdown  of 
Menelaus,  and  for  the  three  criminals  and  their  victim 
the  doom  falls  which  sin  and  bitter  madness  have  made 
inevitable.2 

But  the  Orestes  is  not  remarkable  as  a  study  in 
scepticism,  like  the  Ion.  Even  the  psychology,  superb 
as  it  is,  cannot  be  regarded  as  the  cause  of  the  immense 
popularity  which  the  play  won  in  antiquity.3  It  is  pre- 

1  w.  1662-3. 

a  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  (Euripides  and  his  Age,  pp.  160  sqq.}  has 
some  beautiful  and  striking  observations  on  the  epiphany  of  Apollo  and  its 
effect  on  the  raving  mortals  below :  a  trance  falls  upon  them  from  which 
they  awake  purged  of  hate  and  anger.  But  could  Euripides,  can  we, 
attribute  this  to  a  god  who  has  commanded  matricide  ?  And  the  effect  is 
largely  spoiled  by  Orestes  (vv.  1666  sqq.')  :  "  Prophetic  Loxias,  what  oracles 
are  thine  !  Thou  art  not,  then,  a  lying  prophet,  but  a  true.  Yet  had  I 
begun  to  dread  lest,  when  I  heard  thy  voice  as  I  thought,  it  was  that  of  a 
fiend."  .  .  .  These  are  not  the  tones  of  blissful  faith. 

8  Paley  says  that  this  play  is  more  frequently  quoted  by  ancient 
writers  than  all  the  works  of  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles  together. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  277 

eminent  for  magnificent  situations.  The  sick-bed  scene 
is  unforgettable,  especially  that  marvellous  hushed  song l 
of  Electra  beside  her  sleeping  brother : — 

Holy  night,  outpouring  ever 

Slumber's  boon  on  souls  that  mourn, 
From  thy  midmost  deep  dominion 
Hither  bend  thy  sweeping  pinion, 

Where,  'neath  woes  that  leave  it  never 
Lies  a  princely  house  forlorn. 

The  whole  progress  of  the  later  scenes  is  splendidly 
exciting,  and  in  the  midst  Euripides  has  set  the  audacious 
scene  of  the  Phrygian  slave  who  replaces  the  conven- 
tional messenger's  speech  with  his  wild  lyrical  narrative, 
incoherent  and  baffling.  Equally  brilliant  is  the  finale 
in  which  actual  lunacy  confronts  the  delirium  of  despair 
and  grief,  with  the  frail  victim  flung  upon  the  parapet, 
the  knife  brandished  in  the  madman's  grasp,  and  the 
flames  which  are  to  end  the  horror  already  rising  behind. 

The  BACCH/s2  (BCI/CX<U),  or  Bacchantes  (female 
votaries  of  the  god  Bacchus  or  Dionysus),  was  produced 
in  405  B.C.,  soon  after  the  poet's  death  in  Macedonia, 
and  with  its  companion-plays  obtained  the  first  prize. 

Dionysus,  standing  before  the  palace  of  Thebes,  tells 
how,  disguised  as  a  prophet,  he  has  brought  his  religion 
into  Greece.  His  purpose  in  Thebes  is  to  punish  the 
sisters  of  his  mother  Semele  for  declaring  that  their 
sister  had  united  herself  not  with  Zeus  but  with  some 
mortal,  and  to  crush  the  young  king  Pentheus,  who 
opposes  his  worship.  Already  the  Theban  women  are 
revelling  upon  Mount  Cithaeron,  filled  with  the  Bacchic 
ecstasy.  He  departs  to  join  them,  and  the  chorus  of 
Phrygian  votaresses  throng  in  uttering  a  rapturous 
eulogy  of  their  religion.  Tiresias  and  Cadmus  are  next 
seen  preparing  to  join  the  revels,  when  Pentheus  enters 
and  reproaches  them.  Their  answers  enrage  him 
further  and  he  orders  the  arrest  of  the  stranger-prophet. 
The  chorus  appeal  to  Holiness  against  the  oppressor, 

1  vv.  174  sqq. 

2  Arrangement :    Protagonist,     Pentheus,     Agave ;      deuteragonist, 
Dionysus,  Tire,sias  ;  tritagonist,  Cadmus,  guard,  messengers. 


278  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

reciting  the  blessings  of  Dionysus  and  the  doom  of 
pride  ;  they  yearn  to  revel  unchecked.  The  Stranger  is 
brought  in  ;  Pentheus  questions  and  insults  him,  finally 
haling  him  away  to  the  stables.  The  chorus  sing  their 
indignation  and  desire  for  the  aid  of  Dionysus  in  person 
when  the  prophet  is  heard  summoning  fire  and  earth- 
quake ;  the  women  in  frenzy  greet  the  overthrow  of 
the  palace.  Their  leader  comes  forth  and  relates  how 
Pentheus  in  vain  sought  to  bind  him  and  how  the  god 
has  thrown  the  house  into  utter  ruin.  Pentheus  rushes 
out  in  fury,  but  is  met  by  a  rustic  who  relates  the 
revels  and  miracles  performed  by  the  Theban  votaresses. 
This  excites  the  king  still  further,  but  the  Stranger  dis- 
suades him  from  the  use  of  armed  force  ;  let  him  go 
disguised  as  a  woman  to  witness  the  revels.  Pentheus 
retires  into  the  palace  with  the  prophet,  who  reveals 
the  king's  coming  doom  to  the  chorus  ;  they  rejoice  in 
their  future  freedom  and  the  fate  of  the  ungodly.  Pen- 
theus re-appears,  dressed  as  a  female  reveller  and  utterly 
under  the  Stranger's  influence.  The  two  depart  for 
the  mountains,  the  king  being  now  practically  imbecile. 
The  chorus  fiercely  call  for  bloody  vengeance,  then 
praise  the  humble  endeavour  after  all  that  is  beautiful 
in  life.  A  messenger  returns  with  the  story  of  Pen- 
theus' death  :  he  has  been  torn  to  pieces  by  his  mother 
Agave  and  her  companions.  Agave  enters  in  mad 
triumph  with  her  son's  head,  followed  by  Cadmus,  who 
bears  the  mangled  remains  of  his  grandson  and  gradu- 
ally brings  Agave  back  to  her  senses.  He  laments  l  the 
prince  who  was  the  comfort  of  his  old  age.2  Dionysus 
appears  in  the  sky,  foretells  the  future  of  Cadmus  and  his 
wife,  and  explains  that  the  present  sorrows  are  due  to 
the  will  of  Zeus.  Agave  turns  away,  repudiating  the 
new  religion. 

1  Before  Cadmus'  speech,  a  passage  has  been  lost  in  which  the 
mourners  adjusted  the  torn  fragments. 

'•'There  is  another  gap  at  this  point.  A  considerable  number  of 
Dionysus'  lines  are  missing,  and  no  doubt  also  further  conversation  between 
Cadmus  and  Agave, 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  279 

Intoxicatingly  beautiful,  coldly  sordid,  at  one  moment 
baffling  the  brain,  at  the  next  thrilling  us  with  the  mystic 
charm  of  wood  and  hillside,  this  drama  stands  unique 
among  Euripides'  works.  Its  wonderful  effect  flows 
from  three  sources  :  primitive  dramaturgy,  lyrical  beauty, 
the  enigma  of  its  theological  import.  As  for  the  first 
of  these,  there  is  a  marked  simplicity  both  of  plot  and 
characters.  A  god  brings  a  strange  worship  into  the 
land  of  his  birth  ;  the  king  rejects  and  scorns  him  ; 
whereupon  the  god  turns  his  people  to  madness  so 
that  they  avenge  him  upon  the  king.  It  is  the  simplest 
possible  dramatic  concept.  If  we  consider  the  per- 
sonages, comparing  Agave  with  Phsedra  or  Medea, 
Pentheus  with  Ion  or  Hippolytus,  we  find  an  equal 
simplicity.  The  characters  of  the  Baccha  impress  us 
less  by  their  subtle  truth  to  nature  than  by  the  situation 
in  which  they  stand.  In  this  sense  the  Bacchcs  is  the 
most  ^Eschylean  work  of  Euripides.  Like  his  prede- 
cessor when  he  composed  the  Ckoephorce,  he  is  studying 
directly  a  great  religious  fact,  which  submerges  the  re- 
finements of  individual  psychology,  leaving  somewhat 
stark  figures,  the  God,  the  Old  Man,  the  King,  the 
Prophet,  and  the  Woman.1  In  technique  we  are  not 
far  from  that  primitive  stage  of  modern  drama  which 
exhibits  the  interplay  of  Avarice,  Lovingkindness,  and 
the  rest.  This  imparts  an  even  greater  attractiveness  to 
the  amazing  literary  excellence  of  the  whole.  This  ex- 
cellence is  of  two  distinct  kinds.  The  episodes  are  not 
filled  with  romantic  beauty — only  a  few  splendid  passages 
in  the  long  narratives  of  messengers  exhibit  this  ;  they 
show  the  same  mastery  of  a  brilliant  half-prosaic  idiom 
which  is  familiar  elsewhere.  But  the  lyrics  are  the 
poet's  finest  achievement  in  this  field.  Nothing  that  he 
had  created  hitherto  can  be  compared  with  them,  save 
the  praises  of  Attica  in  the  Medea*  and  the  song  of 

1  See  Professor  Murray  (Euripides  and  his  Age,  pp.  183  sq.).  I 
now  think  that  what  I  wrote  about  the  psychology  of  Dionysus  and  Pen- 
theus (The  Riddle  of  the  Bacchcz,  pp.  66  sy.,  87-101)  is  over-elaborated, 

3vv.  824-45. 


280  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

escape  in  the  Hippolytus?  The  profound  beauty  of 
their  musings  on  the  life  of  serene  piety,  the  startling 
vividness  wherewith  they  express  the  secluded  loveliness 
which  haunts  bare  peaks  or  remote  woodlands,  the 
superb  torrent  of  glowing  song2  which  celebrates  the 
religious  ecstasy  of  Dionysiac  votaries,  where  the 
glorious  diction  is  swept  along  by  a  tempest  of  ever 
more  tumultuous  rhythm — all  these  contribute  to  make 
the  Baccha  something  precious  and  alone. 

It  is  with  regard  to  the  third  feature,  the  theological 
purport,  that  disagreement  begins  among  critics.  Is  the 
playwright  commending  the  Bacchic  religion  to  his 
fellow-countrymen  or  is  he  not?  If  not,  why  this 
magnificent  and  intense  proclamation  of  the  glory  con- 
ferred by  belief?  But  if  he  supports  it,  why  this  dreary 
aching  scene  at  the  end,  when  Dionysus  hears  no  voice 
raised  in  loyalty,  only  the  despairing  accents  of  the 
woman  who  repudiates  his  worship  ?  It  may  be  ob- 
jected that  perhaps  we  should  not  hope  for  definite 
interpretation,  that  since  "like  a  live  thing  it  seems 
to  move  and  show  new  faces  every  time  that,  with 
imagination  fully  working,  one  reads  the  play," 8  perhaps 
there  is  no  core  of  central  fact  to  find.  Here  lurks  a 
dangerous  confusion  of  thought  Every  work  of  art 
springs  from  a  definite  concept  held  by  the  artist,  some 
piece  of  reality  clearly  understood  and  sincerely  felt, 
insisting  on  expression  at  his  hands  precisely  because  it 
affects  him  emotionally.  The  elusiveness  of  the  final 
expression  is  not  in  the  least  degree  any  proof  that  no 
definite  doctrine,  or  experience,  or  passionate  wish,  was 
its  origin  ;  a  fern  has  a  physical  centre  of  gravity  as 
truly  as  an  apple,  though  more  difficult  to  locate.  Rather, 
the  luxuriant  freedom  is  the  proof  that  there  is  deep 
down  something  definite,  else  the  freedom  would  be 

1  w.  732-51- 

2  Professor  Murray's  beautiful  translation  of  these  lyrics  will  be  familiar 
to  most  readers. 

3  Murray,  Euripides  and  his  Age,  p.  196.     My  quotation,  of  course, 
does  not  imply  that  Professor  Murray  is  guilty  of  the  confusion  of  thought 
in  question, 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  281 

anarchy.  We  conclude  that  however  enigmatic  is  the 
Bacchcz,  yet  Euripides  had  a  definite  opinion  about  the 
two  questions  :  Does  the  god  Dionysus  exist  ?  Is  his 
religion  a  blessing  to  humanity  ?  His  opinion  could 
have  been  written  down  in  a  few  lucid  sentences.  Had 
this  not  been  so,  he  would  have  postponed  beginning 
his  play  until  it  was.  This  clear  concept  may  itself 
indicate  "  doubt  "  (if  we  insist  on  the  word)  or  rather  a 
bifurcation  of  truth,  as  may  be  observed  in  the  dramat- 
urgy of  Sophocles. 

There  is,  then,  a  secret  to  be  discovered.  Is  it  lost 
for  ever,  or  not  ?  It  appears  to  some1  that  the  drama 
contains  evidence,  unmistakable  but  long  overlooked, 
which  conveys  Euripides'  opinion  concerning  Dionysus. 
The  chief,  the  only  certain,  clue  is  contained  in  the 
"  Palace-  Miracle  ".  The  facts  are,  that  the  chorus  cry 
aloud  at  the  tottering  of  the  building  ;  that  Dionysus  a 
moment  later  when  relating  what  has  happened  within, 
adds,  "  And  this  further  evil  hath  Bacchus  wrought 
upon  him  :  he  hath  flung  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 
where  it  lies  all  in  ruin  "  ;  2  that,  finally,  the  palace  is  as 
a  fact  uninjured.  This  latter  point  is  proved  by  the 
complete  silence  of  all  the  personages,  except  Dionysus 
and  the  chorus.  Neither  Cadmus  nor  Agave,  nor  the 
two  messengers,  at  their  several  entrances  make  the 
least  remark  about  it.  Above  all,  Pentheus,  who  was 

1  The  view  mentioned  in  this  paragraph  will  be  found  worked  out  in 
the  present  writer's  Riddle  of  the  Bacchtz.      This  theory  has  met  with 
much  scepticism,  but  received  the  honour  of  almost  entire  acceptance  by 
the  late  Dr.  Verrall  in  The  Bacchantes  of  Euripides.     Dr.  Verrall  im- 
proved the  statement  of  the  theory,  in  particular  by  rejecting  the  supposi- 
tion of  a  plot  between  Tiresias  and  the  Stranger.     Mr.  W.   H.  Salter,  in 
his  delightful  Essays  on  Two  Moderns,  also  accepts  this  view  of  the  play 
in  the  main  (pp.  50-68).     Dr.  R.  Nihard,  in  Le  Probleme  des  Bacchantes 
d'Euripide  (Louvain,  1912),  a  useful  study,  rejects  it. 

2  vv.  632  sq.  :  — 


ir  pas  8t  TourS"  auTw  rdS'  S\\a  Bdic^ios 

<rvvT(6pdvu>Tai 


i,  however,  is  elsewhere  only  known  to  us  by  the  explanation 
of  Hesychius,  o-v/MTreVTaKe,  and  Verrall  points  out  that  it  ought  to  mean 
"it  has  all  been  put  together  again", 


282  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

within  the  house  when  the  overthrow  is  alleged  to  have 
occurred,  says  nothing  about  it.  Later  the  prince  and 
his  enemy  enter  the  palace  before  proceeding  to 
Cithaeron,  again  with  no  hint  that  the  building  has  been 
destroyed.  It  follows  that  the  statements  made  by  the 
chorus  and  by  Dionysus  are  untrue.1  The  women 
believe  what  their  leader  cries  out  from  within  and  what 
he  tells  them  later.  That  is,  they  accept  what  their 
own  eyes  tell  them  is  false.  Only  one  power  can  work 
this  marvel  of  belief — hypnotism,  or,  as  earlier  ages 
would  call  it,  magic.  The  Dionysus  of  this  play  is 
precisely  what  Pentheus  calls  him,  a  "  foreign  wizard,"5 
no  god  at  all,  but  a  human  hierophant  of  the  new  re- 
ligion. Brought  up  in  Western  Asia,  he  combines  a 
profound  feeling  for  natural  religion  with  an  un-Greek 
leaning  to  orgiastic  ecstasy  and  an  instinct  for  fiendish 
cruelty;  so  that  in  spreading  the  gospel  of  joy  and  simple 
surrender  to  the  mystic  loveliness  of  Nature  he  crushes 
those  who  reject  him,  not  destroying  them  in  passion,  but 
working  their  misery  with  a  horrible  cold  relish  :  he  is 
Shakespeare's  Richard  the  Third  with  religious  instead 
of  political  ambitions.  As  for  the  Dionysiac  religion 
itself,  the  poet  feels  its  vast  emotional  appeal — feels  it  so 
strongly  that  he  has  drawn  the  most  wonderful  picture 
of  ecstatic  religion  to  be  found  in  literature ;  but  if  it  is 
proposed  to  him  as  "  a  way  of  life  "  for  civilized  men  he 
condemns  it  as  firmly  as  unwillingly.  To  give  free  rein 
to  passions  and  instincts  hitherto  unconscious  or  starved, 
this  is  a  path,  perhaps  the  only  path,  towards  strangely 

1  To  this  view  no  complete  answer  has  yet  been  made.     All  that  can 
possibly  be  said  is  what  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  (Euripides  and  his  Age, 
pp.  1 86  sq.)  and  (in  a  letter  to  the  present  writer)  Professor  U.  von  Wilamo- 
witz-Moellendorf  suggest,  that  the  palace  is  in  the  main  destroyed,  but  the 
facade  is  more  or  less  undamaged.     This  does  away  with  the  testimony 
to  Dionysus'  imposture  which  the  audience  receive  from  their  own  eyes, 
but  it  leaves  untouched  the  incredible  silence  of  Pentheus.     Moreover, 
Dionysus'  words  as  they  stand  mean  that  the  building  is  utterly  destroyed. 
That  they  do  not  mean  this  is  only  suggested  in  despair,  because,  if  they 
do  mean  this,  they  are  absurdly  and  patently  false. 

2  v.  233  sf-  '•  £*vo 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  .       283 

beautiful  experience,  the  thrill  of  communion  with  non- 
human  life ;  but  it  is  not  the  path  for  man.  Here 
Euripides  stands  at  one  with  the  great  European 
tradition.  If  man  is  to  attain  the  height  of  his  destiny 
he  will  seek  not  the  gold  of  joy  but  the  silver  of  happi- 
ness, not  the  blazing  rapture  of  absorption  in  strange 
beauty,  but  the  calm  glow  of  self-understanding  and 
self-expression.  He  will  not  seek  to  destroy  the  instinct 
for  ecstasy,  but  will  harness  it,  and  work  it  into  the 
fabric  of  a  sound  coherent  life.  He  may  be  a  spectator, 
it  is  true,  if  not  of  all  time,  yet  of  all  existence  ;  his  eyes 
will  shrink  from  nothing,  but  his  heart  is  not  to  be  reft 
from  him.  He  must  prove  all  things,  but  hold  fast  only 
that  which  is  good — a  moral  being,  not  the  slave 
of  sound  and  colour.  In  this  drama,  where  Euripides 
seems  to  voice  like  some  pagan  archangel  the  glory  of 
a  non-moral  absorption  in  the  torrent  of  raw  life,  he  is 
fundamentally  as  moral  as  at  any  moment  in  life.  As 
Tannhauser  after  his  sojourn  in  the  Venusberg  is  at  length 
won  back  by  the  urgency  of  his  own  soul  into  the 
Roman  Church,  so  does  Euripides  unflinchingly  present, 
to  an  audience  still  breathing  hard  after  the  glories  of 
Cithseron,  Agave  and  Cadmus  bowed  over  Pentheus' 
mangled  body,  and  the  rejection  of  a  god  whose  unmiti- 
gated demands  imply  the  wreckage  of  sound  human 
life. 

What,  then,  are  we  to  believe  of  Dionysus  ?  If  we 
refuse  him  we  are  liable  like  Pentheus  to  be  destroyed  ; 
if  we  surrender  ourselves,  what  of  Agave  ?  Here  is 
a  dilemma  which  Euripides  himself  did  not  foresee. 
By  flee?  ("god")  he  often  means  something  widely 
different  from  the  concept  of  an  ordinary  Athenian, 
but  he  never  intends  all  the  associations  of  our  word 
"God".  For  us  belief  in  "God"  implies  that  the 
universe  holds  a  personal  Governor,  all-powerful  and 
all-wise,  who  stands  to  us  in  a  relation  emotional  as 
well  as  metaphysical.  To  accept  Him  is  to  believe  that 
His  purpose  embraces  the  existence  and  history  of  the 
universe  and  of  the  humblest  creature  therein,  and 


284  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

because  of  that  belief  to  merit  His  love  by  loving  service 
of  our  own.  These  thoughts  are  to  us  tremendous 
commonplaces  ;  they  would  have  bewildered  any  fifth- 
century  Greek  save  ,/Eschylus.1  0eos  means  a  power, 
usually  but  not  necessarily  personal,  which  is  outside 
ourselves  and  affects  our  life  in  a  manner  which  cannot 
be  affected  by  any  wish  or  act  of  ours,  save  possibly 
to  a  small  degree  by  ritual  submission.  Dionysus,  like 
the  other  "gods,"  is  a  permanent  fact  of  life  personified. 
We  must  give  him  respect,  take  account  of  him  in 
our  conduct  and  judgment  of  others.  To  ignore  him 
is  not  so  much  sin  as  utter  blindness.  If  we  insist  on 
the  personality  of  Dionysus  we  find  him  attractive  but 
deadly,  a  deity  who  employs  his  might  to  entangle 
the  threads  of  life,  crushing  hearts  better  than  his  own. 
In  so  far  as  he  is  a  person  he  is  unthinkable.  But  as 
a  fact  of  life,  with  no  more  purpose  or  will  than  the 
force  of  gravitation,  he  is  neither  good  nor  bad,  simply 
a  profound  reality,  one  of  the  elements  we  must  con- 
sider in  building  our  lives.  Cadmus  expresses  this 
lesson :  "If  anyone  despises  the  supernatural  powers, 
let  him  look  on  the  death  of  this  man  and  believe  in 
the  gods  ".2 

Then  why  does  the  poet  dwell  on  the  personal 
existence  of  Dionysus?  Even  if  we  refuse  to  believe 
the  theory  outlined  already,  that  this  person  is  a  human 
hierophant,  we  can  still  answer  the  question.  Euri- 
pides is  concerned  not  merely  to  tell  us  the  truth  about 
ethics,  but  to  discuss  the  current  theology  of  his  day. 
The  majority  of  his  fellows  believed  in  a  personal  Zeus, 
a  personal  Athena  and  Dionysus.  He  wishes  to  con- 
vince them  of  the  falsity,  the  pernicious  falsity,  of  such 
a  creed.  Take  this  play  in  its  superficial  meaning 
and  you  find  a  person  who  is  detestable — a  god  who 
does  wrong,  and  who  is,  therefore,  no  god  at  all.3  Away 

1  The  attachment  between  Artemis  and  Hippolytus  is  a  remarkable 
exception.  The  stories  concerning  the  "  loves  "  of  gods  and  goddesses  for 
mortals  are  evidently  beside  the  question. 

*  w.  1325  sg. 

:t  Bellcrophon,  fr.  294,  7  :  t\  dtoi  rt  bpSxriv  alo-xpov,  OVK  c«Viv  dtoi. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  285 

with  him ;  purify  your  theology.  And  when  this  is 
done,  we  find,  not  that  the  drama  has  fallen  to  pieces, 
but  that  now  it  is  coherent  and  forcible.  There  is  in 
the  human  soul  an  instinct  for  ecstasy,  for  a  relinquish- 
ment  of  self  in  order  to  feel  and  bathe  in  the  non- 
human  glory  of  Nature.  Trample  this  instinct 
ruthlessly  down  as  did  Pentheus,  and  your  life  is 
maimed  and  shrivelled. 

IPHIGENIA  AT  Auus1  ('I^tyeveta  17  ei>  AvXi'Si)  was 
produced  soon  after  the  poet's  death  in  406  B.C.  by 
his  son,  together  with  Alcmaon  at  Corinth  and  the 
Bacckcz. 

The  scene  shows  Agamemnon's  tent  at  Aulis,  where 
the  Greeks  are  encamped  ready  to  sail  for  Troy,  but 
delayed  by  contrary  winds.  Before  they  can  set  out 
Agamemnon's  daughter  Iphigenia  must  be  sacrificed 
to  Artemis.  The  king  has  written  to  his  wife  bidding 
her  send  the  maiden — to  marry  Achilles.  We  now 
see  him  in  agony  beneath  the  night-sky  and  entrusting 
to  an  aged  slave  a  letter  revoking  the  first.  The  chorus 
(women  of  Colchis)  enter  and  describe  the  pastimes  of 
various  heroes.  Menelaus  intercepts  the  letter  and 
reproaches  his  brother  with  treachery.  After  a  vigorous 
dispute  they  learn  that  Clytaemnestra  and  Iphigenia 
are  approaching.  Menelaus  relents,  but  they  realize 
that  the  sacrifice  must  proceed.  The  chorus  sing 
Aphrodite's  power  and  the  judgment  of  Paris.  Aga- 
memnon greets  his  family  with  half-concealed  distress, 
and  in  vain  attempts  to  send  his  wife  back  forthwith. 
A  choric  ode  describes  the  impending  doom  of  Troy. 
Achilles,  seeking  Agamemnon,  meets  Clytsemnestra, 
who  to  his  amazement  greets  him  as  a  son-in-law. 
In  the  midst  of  their  embarrassment  the  old  slave 
comes  forward  and  reveals  Agamemnon's  purpose. 
The  queen  in  agony  appeals  to  Achilles,  who  promises 
to  defend  Iphigenia.  The  chorus  sing  the  bridals  of 

1  Arrangetnent :  Croiset  gives  :  protagonist,  Agamemnon,  Achilles  ; 
deuteragonist,  Old  Man,  Iphigenia,  messenger  ;  tritagonist,  Menelaus, 
Clytaemnestra. 


286  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Peleus  and  Thetis,  Achilles'  parents.  Then  mother 
and  daughter  pitiously  beg  Agamemnon  to  relent ;  he 
is  heart-broken  but  determined.  Iphigenia  utters  a 
lyric  lament,  after  which  Achilles  tells  how  the  army 
maltreated  him  for  championing  Iphigenia.  He  and 
the  queen  are  excitedly  debating,  when  Iphigenia  pro- 
claims her  readiness  to  die  for  the  cause  of  Greece, 
and  departs,  singing  her  farewell  to  life.  A  messenger 
brings  a  description  of  the  sacrifice  :  at  the  last  moment 
the  princess  miraculously  disappeared,  and  a  hind 
was  substituted  for  her  by  the  goddess.  Agamemnon 
returns  and  takes  leave  of  Clytaemnestra. 

The  text  of  this  drama  presents  curious  features.1 
There  are  two  prologues,  and  the  last  fifty  or  sixty 
lines  of  the  whole  are  corrupt.  It  seems  that  Euripides 
died  before  the  work  was  finished ;  the  gaps  were 
filled  by  his  son  Euripides  who- produced  the  trilogy 
(Iphigenia,  Alcmaon,  Bacchce]  soon  after  406  B.C. 
The  original  prologue,  of  the  ordinary  narrative  kind, 
delivered  by  Agamemnon  in  iambic  metre,  is  embedded 
in  the  later  prologue,  which  takes  the  form  of  a  dialogue 
in  anapaests  between  the  king  and  his  aged  retainer. 
This  later  work  is  extremely  charming,  filled  with  the 
quiet  beauty  of  night  overhanging  the  feverish  ambition 
and  misery  of  men.  But  though  the  younger  Euripides 
probably  wrote  an  ending  also,  this  has  been  displaced 
by  extremely  bad2  work  of  a  much  later  time.  It  is 
not  easy  to  understand  why  such  inferior  matter  was 
allowed  to  eject  the  composition  of  the  younger  Euri- 
pides. Perhaps  the  explanation  is  that  the  concluding 
lines  were  known  from  the  first  not  to  be  by  the  master, 
that  the  play  was  often  produced,  and  that  for  these 
two  reasons  rival  endings  were  very  early  before  the 
public.  They  would  destroy  one  another's  prestige, 
so  that  in  later  centuries  none  survived,  and  some 
scribe  filled  up  the  gap  as  best  he  could. 

A  noteworthy  contrast  exists  between  the  Iphigenia 

1  For  these  see  Professor  Murray's  text,  especially  his  preface. 
J  It  contains,  for  instance,  unmetrical  verses. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  287 

and  the  Baccha,  though  they  were  no  doubt  composed 
at  almost  the  same  time.  In  this  play  the  chorus  has 
practically  no  concern  with  the  action,  whereas  the  Asiatic 
women  form  the  soul  of  the  Bacchcz.  Instead  of  the 
wild  loveliness  or  serene  spirituality  which  thrill  us  in  the 
lyrics  of  that  drama,  we  find  here  nothing  more  pro- 
found than  graceful  complications  of  phrase  and  facile 
emotion.  In  compensation,  while  the  Bacchcz  is  primi- 
tive in  psychology,  its  companion  is  superior  to  many 
Greek  tragedies  in  the  masterly  freedom  and  subtlety  of 
its  character-drawing. 

The  play  is  a  study  of  five  ordinary  characters 
under  the  stress  of  an  extraordinary  crisis.  This  com- 
mon-place quality  of  the  personages  conveys  the  whole 
purport,  giving  it  a  momentous  position  even  among 
such  works  as  we  have  been  discussing.  In  this  latest 
tragedy  no  sincere  reader  can  fail  to  detect  himself  under 
the  thin  disguise  of  names.  Many  men  were  pointed 
at  as  the  original  of  Meredith's  Sir  Willoughby  Patterne, 
and  for  the  same  good  reason  most  Athenian  husbands 
must  have  stirred  a  little  on  their  benches  in  the  presence 
of  this  unheroic  Agamemnon.  There  is  nothing  heroic 
in  any  of  the  persons.  Menelaus  is  an  ordinary  man — 
artlessly  selfish  at  one  moment,  artlessly  and  uselessly 
kind-hearted  at  another,  and  a  master  of  fluent  invective 
which  reveals  his  own  failings.  Clytsemnestra  is  an 
ordinary  woman,  showing  indeed  a  queenly  dignity  in 
the  normal  relations  of  life,  but  when  puzzled  or  alarmed 
revealing  herself  a  thorough  bourgeoise,  and  when  con- 
fronted by  the  doom  which  threatens  her  daughter  for- 
getting all  her  pride,  clutching  at  even  the  most  pitiful 
means1  of  gaining  a  respite,  and  utterly  broken  when 
her  hope  dies  away.  Agamemnon  is  an  ordinary 
man,  thrown  by  circumstances  into  a  position  where 
both  generalship  and  statesmanship  are  needed,  attempt- 
ing to  rule  his  army  by  diplomacy  and  his  family  by 
military  discipline,  with  ruin  as  the  result.  Fatally  open 

1  w.  1 366  sq. 


288  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

to  suggestion,  he  makes  and  remakes  subterfuges,  seek- 
ing to  spare  every  one's  feelings  until  at  last  he  drifts  into 
the  necessity  of  slaying  his  own  child.  Even  Iphigenia 
is  an  ordinary  girl.  It  is  precisely  because  she  is  a  com- 
mon type  that  we  grieve  for  her  anguish  and  triumph 
in  her  exaltation.  Macaria  in  the  Heraclidez  is  almost 
unknown  save  to  professed  students  of  Euripides.  She 
knows  no  fear  or  hesitation  and  lives  on  the  heights  ;  we 
recognize  in  ourselves  no  kinship  with  her.  But  Iphi- 
genia we  meet  every  day.  She  is  no  heroine,  but  a  child. 
Her  delight  at  seeing  her  father  again  shows  all  a  child's 
amiable  abandon  ;  her  pitiful  cries  and  shrinking  at  the 
prospect  of  death  are  those  of  the  ordinary  happiness- 
loving  girl.  When  finally  the  agony  of  her  father,  the 
empty  clamour  of  Achilles,  her  mother's  undignified  tre- 
mors, nerve  her  to  trample  her  own  dread  under  foot,  we 
rejoice  precisely  because  what  we  witness  is  the  triumph 
of  common  human  nature.  Even  Achilles,  son  of  a 
goddess  as  story  reported  him,  is  a  common-place  person 
too.  This  is  not  the  hero  who  flames  through  the  Iliad, 
but  a  young  noble  led  into  the  extreme  of  folly  by  this 
very  legend  that  his  origin  is  divine.  Perhaps  nothing 
even  in  the  deadly  Euripides  is  quite  so  fatal  to  the 
traditional  halo  than  the  incredible  speech a  wherewith 
Achilles  comforts  Clytaemnestra.  Of  vast  length,  full  of 
spurious,  jerky  rhetoric  and  contradictory  comments  on 
the  situation — which,  however  frightful,  appeals  to  him 
mostly  as  an  atmosphere  in  which  he  can  pose — -this 
oration  reveals  him  as  a  sham.  Fortunately  for  him,  he 
is  never  undeceived.  This  man  is  not  the  Achilles  of 
tradition  ;  he  is  spiritual  brother  of  the  mad  prince  in 
the  Orestes  and  the  ancestor  of  Mr.  Shaw's  Sergius 
Saranoff. 

In  his  last  work,  then,  Euripides,  so  far  from  show- 
ing any  exhaustion  of  power,  appears  on  the  verge  of 
new  developments.2  He  has  drawn  still  nearer  to  the 

ivv.  919-74. 

2  For  what  follows  cp.  Professor  Murray,  Euripides  and  his  Age, 
PP-  173-5- 


289 

new  comedy  of  Menander.  The  suddenness  with  which, 
after  the  quarrel  between  Agamemnon  and  Menelaus, 
the  crisis  is  precipitated  by  the  entrance  of  the  messenger 
announcing  Iphigenia's  arrival — the  man  breaks  into  the 
middle  of  a  line1 — is  a  remarkable  novelty.  The  alter- 
cation itself  shows  a  brilliant  freedom  of  idiom  which 
even  this  poet  has  hardly  reached  hitherto.  There  is 
at  least  one  unprecedented  license  of  metre.2  And  the 
complete  change  of  spirit  which  comes  upon  Iphigenia 
was  novel  enough  to  offend  Aristotle.3 

The  CYCLOPS  4  (Kv/cXcm//)  is  the  only  complete 5  satyric 
play  now  extant.  No  indications  of  date6  seem  avail- 
able. 

The  background  is  a  cave  on  Mount  Etna,  wherein 
dwells  the  Cyclops,  or  one-eyed  giant,  Polyphemus. 
Silenus  tells  how  he  and  the  satyrs  have  become  the 
ogre's  slaves.  He  is  sweeping  out  the  cavern  when  the 
chorus  of  satyrs  drive  in  their  flocks.  Odysseus  and  his 
men  arrive,  seeking  provisions,  which  Silenus  eagerly 
sells  for  a  skin  of  wine.  The  conversation  is  interrupted 
by  Polyphemus  who  decides  to  devour  the  intruders. 
Odysseus  eloquently  appeals  to  him,  but  receives  a 
brutal  and  blasphemous  reply.  The  giant  drives  the 
Greeks  within,  and  the  chorus  express  their  disgust  at 
his  cannibalism.  Odysseus  tells  how  two  of  his  men 
have  been  eaten  ;  he  himself  has  gained  favour  by  the 
gift  of  wine,  and  proposes  that  they  all  escape,  after 
blinding  Polyphemus  with  a  red-hot  stake.  The  chorus 
joyfully  assent.  Polyphemus  comes  forth  drunk  and 
intending  to  visit  his  brethren,  but  Odysseus  dissuades 
him.  The  Cyclops  asks  Odysseus  his  name  and  is  told 
"  Noman  "  ;  he  promises  to  eat  his  benefactor  last.  The 
revel  proceeds  until  Polyphemus  retires,  whereupon 

lv.  414.  2The  elision  of  at  in  v.  407.  *  Poetic,  14540. 

4 Arrangement :  protagonist,  Odysseus;  deuteragonist,  Silenus; 
tritagonist,  Polyphemus. 

8  The  Detectives  ('ixvevrai)  of  Sophocles  is  now  known  to  us  by 
extensive  fragments,  see  pp.  175  sq. 

6  Murray  puts  it  "  perhaps  even  before  438  ". 

19 


290  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Odysseus  calls  for  action,  but  the  chorus  all  offer  ridicu- 
lous excuses.  The  hero  goes  within  to  perform  the  task 
with  his  comrades.  Soon  the  giant  reappears,  blind 
and  bellowing  with  pain,  while  the  satyrs  joke  about 
11  Noman,"  and  give  him  false  directions  so  that  the 
Greeks  escape  from  the  cave.  Odysseus  reveals  him- 
self, and  Polyphemus  recognizes  the  fulfilment  of  an 
oracle.  He  threatens  to  wreck  the  ship,  but  the  others 
depart  unconcernedly  to  the  beach. 

This  brief  play — it  has  hardly  more  than  seven 
hundred  lines — is  invaluable  as  being  the  only  complete 
work  of  the  satyric  type  which  we  now  possess.  Con- 
sidered in  itself,  it  is  of  small  value,1  though  it  must  have 
formed  an  agreeable  light  entertainment.  The  lyrics  are 
short  and  trifling.  Of  characterization  there  is  little, 
and  that  little  traditional  and  obvious — Odysseus  is 
pious,  valiant,  resourceful  ;  Polyphemus  brutally  sensual, 
the  satyrs  cowardly  and  frivolous.  Though  there  are 
passages  of  tension,  the  audience  can  never  have  felt 
any  marked  excitement,  as  the  whole  story,  except  that 
the  satyrs  are  imported  by  the  dramatist,  is  taken  from 
a  well-known  episode  in  Homer  2  ;  even  such  things  as 
the  joke  on  the  name  Outis  3  ("  Noman  ")  and  the  com- 
parison 4  between  the  spit  which  blinds  Polyphemus  and 
the  auger  of  a  shipwright,  are  borrowed  from  the  epic. 
The  nature  of  satyric  drama  in  general  is  discussed 
elsewhere.5  Here  it  will  be  enough  to  note  that  there 
are  "  tragic  "  features  in  this  play  ;  Odysseus  throughout 
speaks  and  acts  in  a  manner  as  dignified,  perhaps  more 
dignified,  than  in  certain  tragedies  of  our  poet.  The 
farcical  scenes  provided  by  the  rascally  Silenus,  the 
obscene  jests  and  cowardice  of  the  chorus,  and  a 
certain  approximation6  to  comedy  in  the  iambic  metre 

1  It  attracted  little  attention  from  ancient   scholars.     There   are  no 
scholia,  and  the  hypothesis  is  incomplete. 

2  Odyssey  IX.  105-566. 

3Cp.  w.  549,  672-5,  with  Od.  IX.  vv.  366,  408-12. 
4  Cp.  vv.  460-3  with  Od.  IX.  384-8.  5  See  p.  2. 

6  Anapaests  in  other  feet  than  the  first,  and  occasional  violations  of 
the  rule  of  the  final  cretic  (see  Chapter  VI). 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  291 

used  by  them  or  by  Polyphemus,  are  marks  of  a  satyric 
play.  It  should  be  noted,  however,  that  even  without 
them,  the  Cyclops  would  be  no  tragedy.  Polyphemus 
is  no  tragic  antagonist  of  the  hero.  His  exposition  of 
his  philosophy  of  life,1  such  as  it  is,  must  not  persuade 
us  that  there  is  here  any  valid  moral  antagonism  as 
foundation  of  the  drama.  Odysseus  contends  with  him 
and  eludes  him  as  one  might  escape  the  violence  of  a 
ravening  animal. 

The  RHESUS  2  ( 'P^cro?)  is  a  drama  of  uncertain  date 
and  authorship.  The  action  is  founded  on  the  Tenth 
Book  of  the  Iliad,  and  takes  place  at  night  in  the 
Trojan  camp.  Hector  has  defeated  the  Greeks  and 
hopes  to  destroy  them  at  dawn.  The  drama  opens  with 
a  song  by  the  chorus  of  sentinels,  come  to  warn  Hector 
that  the  Greeks  are  astir.  He  is  ordering  instant  attack 
when  ^Eneas  urges  that  a  spy  be  first  sent.  Dolon 
volunteers,  and  sets  forth  disguised  as  a  wolf,  followed 
by  the  admiration  and  prayers  of  the  chorus.  A  herds- 
man announces  the  approach  of  the  Thracian  prince, 
Rhesus,  with  an  army  to  aid  Troy,  but  Hector  is  dis- 
pleased with  his  tardiness,  and,  despite  the  joyful  ode 
of  the  chorus,  greets  his  ally  with  reproaches.  Rhesus 
offers  excuses,  promising  to  destroy  the  Greeks  without 
Trojan  help,  and  to  invade  Greece ;  Hector  takes  him 
away  to  bivouac.  The  chorus  depart  to  rouse  the 
Lycians,  whose  watch  comes  next.  Odysseus  and 
Diomedes  steal  in,  intending  to  slay  Hector.  They 
have  met  Dolon  and  learned  from  him  the  position  of 
Hector's  tent  and  the  watchword,  "  Phcebus  ".  Athena 
appears,  bidding  them  slay  Rhesus  and  take  his  wondrous 
steeds.  They  depart,  and,  seeing  Paris  draw  near,  she 
calms  his  suspicions  under  the  guise  of  his  protectress 
Aphrodite.  Next  she  recalls  the  Greeks,  who  have  slain 

^v.  316-41. 

2  The  arrangement  of  the  cast  is  not  clear  ;  perhaps  :  protagonist, 
Hector,  Odysseus  ;  deuteragonist,  yEneas,  Rhesus,  Diomedes,  charioteer  ; 
tritagonist,  Dolon,  herdsman,  Athena,  Muse.  The  brief  part  of  Paris  may 
have  been  taken  by  Diomedes  or  Odysseus,  possibly  by  a  fourth  actor. 


292  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Rhesus.  An  exciting  scene  follows,  in  which  the  chorus 
seize  Odysseus,  who  escapes  by  using  the  pass-word. 
The  chorus  sing  the  daring  of  Odysseus.  A  wounded 
charioteer  of  Rhesus  staggers  in,  proclaiming  his 
master's  death,  of  which  he  accuses  Hector,  who  sends 
him  away  for  tendance.  As  the  chorus  lament,  a  Muse 
appears  in  the  sky,  bearing  the  body  of  her  son  Rhesus. 
She  sings  a  dirge  and  curses  Odysseus  and  Diomedes. 
Next  she  tells  of  her  union  with  the  river-god,  father  of 
Rhesus,  and  upbraids  Athena.  Hector  promises  glorious 
obsequies,  but  she  declares  that  her  son  shall  live  on 
in  the  Thracian  mountains  as  a  spirit  half-divine.1 
Hector  orders  an  assault  upon  the  Greeks,  and  the 
chorus  sing  a  few  courageous  words. 

This  admirable  drama  stands  quite  by  itself.  There 
is  a  minimum  of  psychology  ;  the  lyrics  are  mostly  of 
slight  value.  But  the  writer  has  not  aimed  at  a  tragedy 
of  the  usual  type.  Its  excellence  lies  in  the  vigour 
and  excitement  of  the  action.  Almost  all  the  scenes, 
especially  the  debate  at  the  opening,  and  the  escape  of 
the  Greeks,  are  written  by  a  master  of  vivid  realism, 
who  is  less  concerned  with  character-drawing.  The 
unwearied  Hector,  the  cautious  ^Eneas,  the  vaunting, 
splendid,  barbarian  prince,  the  fiercely  loyal  charioteer — 
these  are  all  obvious  types.  The  only  really  fine  stroke 
of  psychological  insight  occurs  where  Hector,  himself 
reckless  at  first,  is  by  the  absurd  presumptuousness  of 
Rhesus  forced  into  discretion.2  What  really  stirs  one 
is  the  thrilling  atmosphere  of  danger  and  the  magical 
little  lyric  3  which  falls  half-carelessly  from  the  wearied 
sentries  when  the  night  begins  to  wane  : — 

Hark  !     Hark  ! 

That  voice,  as  of  a  thousand  strings  ! 
The  nightingale,  where  Simois  moves  along 

'Mid  corpses  stark  ! 
Upon  the  listening  air  she  flings 
Her  grief  transfused  into  song. 

1  dvdpuiro8aip.a>v  (v.  97 1 ).  *  vv.  474-84,  8  VV.  546-56. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  293 

E'en  now  on  Ida  graze  the  sheep. 
One  distant  pipe  through  darkness  cries 

Over  the  upland  lawn. 
Now  layeth  velvet-footed  sleep 
Enchantment  on  my  drooping  eyes, 
Sweetest  at  hush  of  dawn. 

Some  ancient  critics  denied  that  Euripides  wrote 
the  Rhesus,  and  the  great  majority  of  modern  scholars 
have  accepted  this  view.1  The  evidence  for  Euripidean 
authorship  is  as  follows :  (i)  The  play  comes  down  to  us 
in  the  manuscripts  of  that  poet.  (ii)  That  Euripides 
wrote  a  Rhesus  is  known  from  the  Didascalice  or 
Dramatic  Records.  (iii)  Early  Alexandrian  writers 
quote  passages  from  our  text  as  from  "  the  Rhesus  of 
Euripides  ".  On  the  other  side  are  (i)  a  statement  in 
the  Argument  : 2  "  Some  have  suspected  this  drama  to 
be  spurious,  and  not  the  work  of  Euripides,  for  it  reveals 
rather  the  Sophoclean  manner";  (ii)  various  features 
of  the  work  which  modern  critics  have  regarded  as 
suggesting  an  inferior  playwright :  (a)  the  plot  is  super- 
ficial ;  (<$)  there  is  no  prologue ; 3  (c)  four  actors  are 
needed  ;  (d}  /Eneas  and  Paris  have  practically  nothing 
to  do  ;  (e)  the  chorus  is  employed  in  a  manner  foreign 
to  Euripidean  plays  ;  (/)  there  is  a  lack  of  force  and 
pathos  ;  (g)  there  is  no  rhetoric  ;  (ft)  there  is  no  sen- 
tentiousness  ;  (i)  we  have  here  the  beginning  of  historical 
drama,  which  is  later  than  the  fifth  century  ;  (/)  the 
style  is  eclectic  :  imitations  of  /Eschylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides  are  to  be  observed.4 

Several  of  these  objections  are  plainly  unfounded. 
Four  actors  are  not  clearly  necessary,  as  was  shown 

1  An  excellent  summary  of  the  evidence  (to  which  I  am  indebted)  is 
to  be  found  in  the  Introduction  to  Professor  Murray's  verse-translation. 

2  Its  author,  however,  is  by  no  means  convinced  by  them.      He  gives 
also  interesting  information  on  other  points. 

3  That  is,  the  two  prologues  mentioned  in  the  Argument  were  added 
for  later  performances. 

4  Another  argument  on  this  side,  which  is  perhaps  new,  lies  in  the  fact 
that  almost  all  the  action  takes  place  at  night — an  unique  feature.     The 
ancient  theatre,  of  course,  could  not  be  darkened.     It  might  be  urged  that 
the  drama  was  meant  for  readers  only,  and  so  comes  from  one   of  the 

i  of  the  fourth  century  (see  p.  32). 


294  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

above.  Pathos,  of  a  kind  quite  Euripidean,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  scene  where  the  Muse  laments  her  glorious 
son.  And  how  deny  rhetorical  force  to  a  poet  who  can 
write  such  brilliantly  vigorous  things  as  : — 

Aye,  friends  in  plenty  shall  I  find,  now  Heaven 
Stands  firm  for  us,  and  Fortune  guides  my  sword. 
I  need  them  not  !    Where  hid  they  those  long  years 
When  Troy,  a  galleon  with  her  canvas  rent, 
Reeled  onward  through  war's  shrieking  hurricane  ?  * 

The  high-hearted  defence 2  of  Rhesus  is  full  of  the  same 
tingling  rhetoric.  Yet  many  critics  3  of  the  highest  rank 
have  denied  Euripidean  authorship  to  the  Rhesus.  On 
the  other  side  stands 4  the  testimony  of  the  almost  con- 
temporary record.  One  consideration,  obvious  yet  too 
often  ignored,  may  help  us.  The  earliest  work  of 
Euripides  to  which  we  can  assign  a  date — the  Alcestis 
— belongs  to  the  year  438.  The  poet  was  then  at  least 
forty-two  years  old.  Is  it  beyond  belief  that  twenty 
years  before  the  Alcestis  the  youthful  dramatist  com- 
posed a  stirring  tale  of  war  and  hair-breadth  escape, 
which  owed  much  to  the  manner  of  ^schylus,  especi- 
ally in  his  handling  of  the  chorus  ?  During  the  period 
for  which  we  have  evidence,  he  was  constantly  testing 
the  possibilities  of  his  art.  Need  we  assume  that  until 
the  Alcestis  he  had  not  advanced  ? 

The  soundest  view  appears  to  be  that  we  have  here 
a  very  early  work  of  Euripides.  This  is  confirmed  by 
the  critic  Crates,  an  Academic  philosopher  of  the  second 
century  before  Christ,  who  asserted  that  Euripides  was 
still  young  when  he  wrote  the  Rhesus*  To  this  should 
be  added  whatever  help  may  be  drawn  from  con- 
temporary history.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  that  when 
this  drama  was  composed  Athenian  politics  were  closely 
concerned  with  Thrace.  An  Athenian  colony  at  Nine 
Ways,  afterwards  called  Amphipolis,  was  destroyed  by 

1w.  319-23.  2vv.  422-53. 

*  It  suffices  to  mention  Scaliger,  Bockh,  Hermann,  Valckenaer,  and 
Wilamowitz-Moellendorff. 

4  Upheld,  e.g.  by  Christ  and  Murray. 

•  Schol.  on  v.  528. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  295 

the  Thracians  in  465  B.CT  In  436  the  place  was  re- 
settled under  the  new  name  by  Hagnon,  who  brought 
the  bones  of  Rhesus  from  the  Troad  back  to  Thrace. 
The  later  year,  as  connected  with  the  hero,  would  seem 
the  more  suitable,  were  it  not  for  the  words1  of  his 
mother  who  refuses  burial  for  her  son  and  proclaims 
his  strange  life  after  death  :  "  hidden  in  caverns  of  the 
silver-yielding  soil  he  shall  lie  as  a  human  spirit,  still 
living  ".  Such  language  would  rather  be  avoided  after 
the  bones  themselves  had  been  visibly  committed  to 
Thracian  earth.  On  the  whole,  one  thinks  the  situation 
more  suitable  to  some  period,  anterior  to  Hagnon 's  ex- 
pedition, when  Thracian  politics  were  in  the  air,  perhaps 
quite  soon  after  the  disaster  of  465  B.C.2 

Of  the  lost  plays  we  have  about  eleven  hundred  frag- 
ments. Few  of  these  comprise  more  than  three  or  four 
lines,  but  a  fair  conception  of  several  dramas  can  be 
formed  from  reports  of  the  plot,  parodies  by  Aristophanes, 
and  the  remains  themselves. 

The  TELEPHUS  was  acted  in  438  B.C.,  together  with 
The  Cretan  Women,  Alcmaon  at  Psophis,  and  Alcestis. 
Sophocles  won  the  first  prize,  Euripides  the  second. 
Telephus,  King  of  Mysia,  was  wounded  by  Achilles  when 
the  Greeks  invaded  Mysia  in  mistake  for  Troy.  His 
wound  would  not  heal,  and  he  entered  his  enemies' 
country  disguised  as  a  beggar,  to  consult  the  Delphic 
oracle,  which  declared  that  "the  wounder  would  heal 
him  ".  Meanwhile  the  Greek  heroes  were  deliberating 
at  Argos  about  a  second  expedition.  Agamemnon 
refused  to  set  forth  again,  and  uttered  to  Menelaus  the 
celebrated  words  :  ^Trdprrjv  eXa^es  •  Tavryv  Kocr/Aet — 
"  Sparta  is  thy  place  :  make  thereof  the  best ".  While 
the  council  was  in  progress  Telephus  begged  audience. 
His  disguise  was  penetrated  by  Odysseus,  and  he  was 

1  vv.  962-73. 

2  On   the  whole  question  see  Mr.  W.  H.  Porter's  excellent  paper, 
"  The  Euripidean  Rhesus  in  the  Light  of  Recent  Criticism  "  (Hennathena, 
xvii.  pp.  348-80),  and  his  useful  edition  of  the  play. 


296  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

about  to  be  slain  when  he  snatched  up  the  infant  Orestes, 
threatening  to  kill  the  child  if  the  Greeks  molested  him. 
He  was  given  a  hearing  and  justified  his  action  in  fight- 
ing the  Greeks  when  they  invaded  his  country.  His 
hearers  were  won  over,  but  it  was  found  that  Achilles 
had  no  knowledge  of  medicine.  Odysseus  suggested 
that  the  real  "  wounder  "  was  Achilles'  spear.  Telephus 
was  thus  healed,  and  in  his  gratitude  consented  to  guide 
the  Greeks  to  Troy. 

We  possess  in  the  Ackarnians  of  Aristophanes  an 
elaborate  and  brilliant  parody  of  the  interview  granted 
to  Telephus.  Dicseopolis,  an  Athenian  farmer  who 
has  made  peace  on  his  own  account  with  Sparta,  is 
attacked  by  his  fellow-citizens,  the  charcoal-burners  of 
Acharnse,  and  only  obtains  leave  to  plead  his  cause  by 
threatening  to  slay  their  darling — a  coal- basket.  Then 
he  begs  from  Euripides  the  beggar's  outfit  of  Telephus, 
and,  returning,  delivers  a  clever  harangue  denouncing 
the  war.  The  baby-hostage  idea  Aristophanes  used 
again  in  the  Thesmophoriazusce,  where  Mnesilochus,  in 
great  danger  from  the  infuriated  women,  seizes  the 
infant  which  one  of  them  is  carrying,  only  to  find  it  a 
concealed  wine-skin. 

PHILOCTETES  was  produced  in  431  B.C.  with  the 
Medea,  Dictys,  and  Harvesters  (©epic-rat),  when  both 
Euripides  and  Sophocles  were  defeated  by  Euphorion, 
the  son  of  ^Eschylus.  Our  knowledge  is  derived  almost 
wholly  from  Dio  Chrysostom1  who  compares  the  three 
plays  called  Philoctetes  by  yEschylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides.  He  offers  interesting  comments  on  the  dif- 
ferences in  plot.  In  Euripides,  as  in  ./Eschylus,  the 
chorus  consists  of  Lemnian  men,  but  the  later  poet 
anticipates  criticism  by  making  his  chorus  apologize  for 
not  visiting  the  sufferer  earlier.  One  Lemnian,  by  name 
Actor,  takes  part  as  a  friend  of  Philoctetes.  The  "pro- 
logue "  is  spoken  by  Odysseus  (here  working  with  Dio- 
medes,  not  Neoptolemus,  as  in  Sophocles)  who  explains 

1  Cp.  pp.  119  sq.,  165  sq. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  297 

that  he  would  not  have  undertaken  this  present  task  for 
fear  of  being  recognized  by  Philoctetes,  had  not  Athena 
changed  his  appearance.  (Here,  as  in  the  apology 
offered  by  the  chorus,  we  have  implied  criticism l  on 
^Eschylus.)  The  Trojans  are  sending  an  embassy  in 
the  hope  of  gaining  Philoctetes.  Later  in  the  drama, 
no  doubt,  occurred  a  set  dispute  between  the  Greek  and 
the  Trojan  envoys. 

In  the  BELLEROPHON  Euripides  seems  to  have  gone  to 
the  extreme  in  depicting  the  passionate  atheism  inspired 
by  the  sight  of  prosperous  wickedness.  "If  the  gods 
do  aught  base,"  he  exclaims  in  a  famous  line,  "  they 
are  not  gods."  Another  vigorous  fragment  begins  : — 

Then  dare  men  say  that  there  are  gods  in  Heaven  ? 
Nay,  nay  !     There  are  not.     Fling  the  tale  away, 
The  ancient  lie  by  human  folly  bred  ! 
Base  not  your  judgment  on  these  words  of  mine — 
Use  but  your  eyes. 

Bellerophon  ascended  to  Heaven  on  his  winged  steed 
Pegasus  in  order  to  remonstrate  with  Zeus.  This  idea 
is  used  farcically  in  Aristophanes'  Peace,  where  Trygaeus 
ascends  on  a  monstrous  beetle. 

ERECHTHEUS  was  a  beautiful  picture  of  patriotism. 
Athens  being  attacked  by  the  Eleusinians  and  Thracians, 
King  Erechtheus  was  told  by  the  Delphic  oracle  that 
he  could  secure  victory  for  Athens  by  sacrificing  his 
daughter.  His  wife  Praxithea,  in  a  speech  of  passionate 
patriotism,  consented  to  give  up  her  child  ;  Swinburne 
has  used  this  fragment  in  his  own  Erechtheus.  Another 
long  fragment  contains  the  advice  which  Erechtheus 
gives  to  his  son,  and  which  in  its  dry  precision 
curiously  resembles  the  farewell  of  Polonius  to  Laertes. 
While  the  issue  of  battle  remains  uncertain,  the  chorus 
of  old  Athenians  sing  a  lyric  which  charmingly  renders 
their  yearning  for  peace  : 

1  Euripides  revises  even  the  diction  of  his  predecessor,  ^schylus 
wrote  (fraytSaiva  8*  TJ  pov  <rdpKas  fcrBiti  iroftos ;  Euripides  repeats  the  line 
with  the  verb  altered  to  doivarm  (Aristotle,  Poetic,  1458^). 


298  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Along  my  spear,  at  last  laid  by, 

May  spiders  weave  their  shining  thread  ; 

May  peace  and  music,  ere  I  die, 

With  garlands  crown  my  whitening  head. 

I'd  deck  Athene's  cloistered  fane 

With  shields  of  Thracian  mountaineers, 

And  ope  the  well-loved  page  again 
Where  poets  sing  across  the  years. 

Another  popular  play  was  the  ANTIOPE.  It  dealt 
with  the  persecution  of  Antiope  by  Lycus,  King  of 
Thebes,  and  his  wife  Dirce.  She  was  rescued  from 
death  by  her  two  sons,  Amphion  and  Zethus,  whom  she 
had  been  compelled  to  abandon  at  birth,  and  who  dis- 
covered the  relationship  in  the  critical  hour.  The  chief 
interest  of  the  play  was  the  contrast  between  the  brothers 
— Zethus  a  man  of  muscle,  devoted  to  farming  ;  Am- 
phion, a  musician  and  lover  of  the  arts.  Euripides  de- 
veloped this  contrast  in  a  long  debate  wherein  culture 
was  upheld  against  the  "  Philistine  ".  We  still  read 
one  criticism  of  myth  which  recalls  a  blunt  passage  of 
the  fon.1  Story  said  that  Antiope's  sons  were  the  off- 
spring of  Zeus,  but  Amphion  has  the  hardihood  to  ex- 
press doubt  to  his  mother  herself. 

With  the  Helen  (B.C.  412)  was  produced  a  work  of 
the  first  importance — the  ANDROMEDA,  a  charming  love- 
story  full  of  romance  and  poetical  loveliness.  It  was 
immensely  popular  ;  Aristophanes  gives  in  his  Thesmo- 
phoriazusa  a  parody  as  elaborate  as  that  of  Telephus  in 
the  Ackarnians,  and  it  was  a  perusal  of  this  drama  which 
excited  Dionysus  in  the  Frogs  to  descend  to  Hades 
for  the  purpose  of  fetching  back  the  dead  playwright. 
Lucian 2  tells  how  Archelaus,  the  tragic  actor,  came  to 
Abdera  and  performed  the  Andromeda.  The  whole 
town  grew  crazy  over  it.  "  They  used  to  sing  the  solo 
from  the  Andromeda  and  recite  Perseus'  speech  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  The  town  swarmed  with  these  actors 

1  w.  1520-7. 

1  Quomodo  historia  conscribenda,  §  I. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  299 

of  a  week's  standing,  pale  and  lean,  shouting  with  all  the 
strength  of  their  lungs 

O  Love,  of  gods  and  men  tyrannic  Lord, 

and  all  the  rest  of  it.  This  went  on  for  a  long  time,  in  fact 
till  winter,  when  a  severe  frost  cured  them  of  their  non- 
sense." The  Andromeda  points  forward  to  the  novel,  and 
it  is  interesting  to  note  that  in  the  best  Greek  novel — the 
sEthiopica  of  Heliodorus,  who  wrote  about  eight  hundred 
years  after  Euripides'  death — the  heroine's  father,  like 
Andromeda's,  was  an  Ethiopian  king. 

Scanty  as  are  the  remnants  of  this  drama,  we  can 
still  form  some  idea  of  its  structure.1  "  It  is  the  crowning 
virtue  of  all  great  art  that,  however  little  is  left  of  it  by 
the  injuries  of  time,  that  little  will  be  lovely."2  The 
country  of  Cepheus,  the  Ethiope  king,  was  ravaged  by 
a  sea-monster,  and  the  only  help  lay  in  sacrificing  to  the 
creature  Andromeda,  the  king's  daughter,  who  was  bound 
to  a  rock  and  left  as  his  prey.  At  this  point  the  action 
begins.  It  is  still  night  and  from  the  cliff  rises  the 
lament  of  the  captive  : — 

O  solemn  night, 
How  slow  thy  coursers  trace, 
Amid  the  holy  Heaven  star-bedight, 

Their  pathway  through  the  deeps  of  space  ! 

At  each  pause  in  her  song  comes  the  voice  of  Echo  re- 
peating the  sad  syllables,  till  Andromeda  is  joined  by  the 
maidens  who  form  the  chorus.  The  lyric  dialogue  con- 
cluded, it  seems 3  that  the  father  and  mother,  Cepheus 
and  Cassiopeia,  enter  and  that  there  is  some  talk  of 
attacking  the  monster  ;  Phineus,  brother  of  the  king  and 
the  affianced  of  Andromeda,  shrinks  from  the  risk.  But 
now  comes  unlooked-for  aid.  Perseus,  fresh  from  his 
slaughter  of  the  Gorgon,  arrives,  borne  through  the  air 

1  See  Hartung's  masterly  treatment  in  Euripides  Restitutus,  II,  pp. 
344-60. 

2  Ruskin,  Mornings  in  Florence,  I,  14. 

3  The  statements  in  this  sentence  are  taken  from  Hartung,  who  bases 
his  conception  here  upon  other  authors  ;  there  are  no  Euripidean  fragments 
to  this  effect. 


300  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

on  his  winged  sandals.  Though  Zeus  is  his  father,  in 
this  play  he  figures  as  the  lowly  hero  familiar  in  our  own 
fairy-tales.  Certainly  he  appears  to  be  contrasted  with 
the  rich  but  cowardly  Phineus,  and  the  helpless  despair- 
ing king.  His  first  words  have  been  preserved  : — 

Gods  !     To  what  alien  kingdom  am  I  come 
On  sandals  swift,  between  the  earth  and  Heaven 
Journeying  homewards  on  these  winged  feet  ?  .  .  . 
But  soft  !  what  crag  is  that  by  tossing  foam 
Surrounded  ?     Lo,  the  statue  of  a  maid 
Hewn  from  the  living  rock  by  patient  art, 
Its  craftsman's  master- work  ! 

Drawing  near,  he  perceives  that  this  thing  of  beauty  is 
a  living  maiden,  and  at  once  longs  to  make  her  his  bride. 
When  she  asks  his  name,  instead  of  proudly  claiming 
Zeus  as  his  father,  he  mentions  his  own  name,  his 
journey's  end,  and  his  achievement  :— 

Htpvevs,  irpbs'Apyos  vavcrrdXwv,  TO  Topyovos 
ndpa  Kopifav. 

But  he  is  no  mediaeval  knight ;  he  does  not  forbear  to 
state  his  claim  before  addressing  himself  to  the  task  : 
"And  if  I  save  thee,  maid,  wilt  give  me  thanks?" 
Andromeda,  on  her  side,  feels  and  speaks  without 
subtlety  : — 

Stranger,  have  pity  on  my  sore  distress  : 
Free  me  from  bonds, 

and  again 

Take  me,  O  stranger,  for  thy  handmaiden, 
Or  wife,  or  slave. 

Before  encountering  the  monster  Perseus  comes  to  an 
understanding  with  Cepheus  and  goes  forth  to  the  con- 
flict, calling  upon  Eros  to  aid  his  chosen  ; — 

O  Love,  of  gods  and  men  tyrannic  Lord, 

Either  teach  Beauty  to  unlearn  her  power, 

Or  speed  true  lovers,  through  th'  adventurous  maze 

That  in  thy  name  they  enter,  to  success. 

So  shall  all  men  to  thee  pay  reverence. 

Refuse,  and  lo  !  thy  glories  fade  to  naught 

E'en  through  thy  very  boon  of  wakened  hearts. 

Two  or  three  lines  picture  the  grateful  crowd  of  rustics 
who  surrounded  the  victor  ;  "all  the  shepherd-folk  flowed 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  301 

around  him,  one  bringing  an  ivy-bowl  of  milk  for  his 
refreshing,  another  the  joyous  grape-juice ".  Phineus 
sought  to  assert  his  claim  upon  Andromeda,  but  was  re- 
pulsed by  her  father.  Later  the  maiden's  parents  them- 
selves begged  her  not  to  leave  them  desolate.  In  a 
thrilling l  reply  she  declared  that  she  would  cleave  to  her 
husband.  Then  follows  mention  of  a  wedding-feast, 
and  at  the  close  it  seems  probable  that  Athena  foretold 
the  future. 

Of  the  PHAETHON  we  are  fortunate  in  possessing  two 
unusually  long  fragments  of  seventy  and  seventy-five 
lines  respectively.  It  is  an  exciting  and  romantic  story 
—the  legend  of  Phaethon,  child  of  the  Sun-god,  who 
called  upon  his  father  to  prove  their  relationship  by  per- 
mitting him  for  one  day  to  drive  the  chariot  of  the  Sun. 
This  conception,  gorgeous  with  the  spirit  of  adventure 
and  an  un-Greek  yearning  for  what  transcends  mortal 
power,  seems  to  have  filled  the  whole  play  with  glow 
and  rushing  movement.  A  fragment  of  the  prologue 
marks  this  at  once :  it  tells  how  Clymene  is  wedded 

To  Merops,  lord  of  this  our  land 
Which  first  of  all  the  earth  the  Sun-God  smites 
With  golden  radiance  of  his  risen  car, 
Nam'd  by  black-visaged  folk  that  dwell  around 
The  gleaming  stable  of  the  Sun  and  Dawn. 

From  Strabo,2  to  whom  we  owe  this  extract,  we  learn 
that  the  palace  of  Merops  is  close  to  the  abode  of  the 
Sun-god.  This  notion  that  the  youth's  home  is  only 
an  hour's  walk  from  the  palace  of  the  Sun,  gives  a  sense 
of  delightful  verisimilitude.3  It  appears  that  Phaethon 
in  this  prologue  tells  how  his  father  Merops  plans  to 
marry  him  to  a  goddess,  but  that  he  himself  is  unwilling.4 

1  Eratosthenes  (Catast.  \  5,  quoted  by  Nauck)  says:  011%  fiXrro  TO>  n-arpt 
a~vfj.p.fveiv  ov8e  777  /wjrpt,  aXX"  avdaiptros  (Is  TO  "Apyos  dirr)\df  fier'  (Ktivov 
evyevfs  TI  <ppovrj(raa-a.  The  last  three  words  suggest  a  scene  of  irresolution 
followed  by  a  speech  of  high  resolve,  as  in  the  Iphigenia  at  Aulis. 

2 1,  33- 

3  See  Goethe's  enthusiastic  and  brilliant  discussion,    Altgriechtsche 
Literatur  (Works,  Vol.  V,  p.  127,  edition  of  1837). 

4  Hartung's  brilliant  sketch  of  Phaethon's  character  (Eur.  Restitutus, 
II,  pp.  192  sg.),  however  imaginary,  will  be  read  with  interest. 


802  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Clymene,  his  mother,  to  persuade  her  son  that  he  will  not 
be  distastefully  united  to  one  vastly  his  superior,  reveals 
that  he  is  the  son  not  of  Merops  but  of  the  Sun-god, 
Helios,  who  promised  her  long  ago  that  he  would  grant 
her  child  one  wish.  Let  Phaethon  approach  Helios  with 
some  request,  and  prove  her  story.  The  prince  resolves 
to  do  so.  The  chorus  of  female  attendants  enter  with 
a  lovely  song  in  honour  of  Phaethon's  wedding  ;  they 
picture  the  whole  earth  awakening  to  daily  activities. 
Next  appears  the  king,  who  describes  the  brilliant  future 
which  awaits  his  son.1  Phaethon  views  with  distaste 
this  life  of  easeful  splendour  ;  to  him  at  this  moment  may 
well  be  attributed  the  vigorous  words 2 

Each  nook  of  earth  that  feeds  me  is  my  home. 

Goethe  has  indicated,  with  splendid  insight,  the  dramatic 
power  which  must  have  filled  this  scene :  the  aged  king 
offering  the  easy  joys  of  riches  and  a  royal  home  to  this 
youth  already  burning  in  secret  for  the  high  enterprise 
of  seeking  his  real  and  divine  father. 

Later  the  interview  was  described  between  Phaethon 
and  Helios,  who  after  seeking  to  dissuade  him,  granted 
his  request  and  added  anxious  instructions  : — 

"  Let  not  thy  steeds  invade  the  Afric  sky  : 
Its  temper  hath  no  moistness,  and  thy  wheels 
Downward  must  sink.  .  .  . 
Direct  thy  path  toward  the  Pleiads  Seven." 
Impatient  of  the  rest,  he  snatched  the  reins 
And  smote  the  winged  coursers  till  they  flew 
Unchecked  thro'  opening  vistas  of  the  heaven. 
His  father,  mounted  on  a  blazing  star, 
Rode  after,  warning  him  :  "  Drive  thither,  boy  !  " 
"Wheel  yonder!" 

The  messenger  seems  to  have  continued  with  a 
picture  of  Phaethon's  fall.  The  body,  still  giving  off  the 
smoke  of  destruction,  is  next  brought  in,  and  we  possess 
part  of  Clymene's  frantic  speech.  Her  grief  is  mingled 
with  terror  :  the  strange  manner  of  her  son's  death  may 

1  This  is  an  acute  suggestion  of  Goethe. 

2  wr  iravraxov  yt  irarpis  fj  /Sdcricovcra  yrf. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  303 

provoke  her  husband  Merops  to  inquiry  and  reflexion 
and  so  her  long-past  union  with  the  Sun-god  may  come 
to  light.  She  bids  them  hide  the  body  in  the  treasure- 
chamber,  of  which  she  alone  holds  the  keys.  Soon  the 
king  enters  amid  lyric  strains  celebrating  the  marriage- 
day  of  Phaethon.  He  is  giving  orders  for  merry-making 
when  a  servant  hurries  out  to  inform  him  that  the 
treasure  -chamber  is  giving  forth  clouds  of  smoke. 
Merops  hastens  within,  and  the  chorus  bewail  the  dis- 
closure which  is  imminent.  In  a  moment  the  stricken 
father  is  heard  returning  with  lamentation.  The  course 
of  the  last  scene  is  not  certain,  but  probably  a  god  recon- 
ciled the  king  and  his  wife,  giving  directions  for  the 
disposal  of  Phaethon's  body  ;  a  beautiful  but  obscure 
fragment,1  redolent  with  the  charm  of  breezes  and  mur- 
muring boughs  after  all  this  blaze  and  splendour,  seems 
to  point  to  the  story  of  Phaethon's  sisters,  who  mourned 
him  beside  the  western  waters  and  were  transformed 
into  poplars.  This  god  was  probably  Oceanus,2  the 
father  of  Clymene.  He  alone  (deity  of  the  world- 
encircling  water)  could  give  unity  to  these  two  pictures, 
the  radiant  eastern  land  of  Phaethon's  youthful  enter- 
prise, and  the  distant  western  river  where  his  sorrows 
and  his  end  are  bathed  in  dim  beauty. 

This  sketch  allows  us  to  realize  how  much  we  have 
lost  in  the  Phaethon.  The  romantic  events  and  setting 
recall  the  Andromeda.  Clymene's  sorrow  and  shame 
mingle  strangely  with  the  gallant  enterprise  and  bright 
charm  of  the  whole,  somewnat  as  Creusa's  story  is  con- 
trasted with  the  fresh  cheerfulness  of  Ion.  Above  all, 
the  noble  simplicity  and  high-hearted  adventurousness 
of  Phaethon,  inspired  by  his  new-found  kinship  with  a 
god  and  chafing  at  the  placid  programme  of  domestic 
honour  and  luxury  which  his  supposed  father  sets  before 
him  —  this  is  a  concept  of  boundless  promise. 


a>\(vai(Ti  ^v^r^pia  \e£(rai. 

2  The  chorus  in  their  terror  bid  the  queen  seek  refuge  with  her  father 
Oceanus. 


304  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

The  HvpsiPYLE,1  which  was  produced  late 2  in  Euri- 
pides' life,  is  specially  interesting  through  the  discovery 
in  1906  of  extensive  fragments  at  Oxyrhynchus  in 
Egypt.  Previously  it  was  known  by  scanty  quotations  of 
no  great  interest,  though  apparently  much  prized  in 
ancient  times.3  The  plot  is  now  in  the  main  clear. 
Hypsipyle,  grand-daughter  of  the  god  Dionysus  and 
daughter  of  Thoas,  King  of  Lemnos,  was  exiled  because 
she  refused  to  join  in  the  massacre  of  the  Lemnian  men 
by  their  women.  Previously  she  had  borne  twin  sons  to 
Jason.  These  she  lost  when  expelled  from  her  home. 
She  is  now  slave  to  Eurydice,  Queen  of  Nemea  in  the 
north  of  the  Peloponnese,  and  nurse  to  her  infant  son 
Opheltes.  Her  own  sons  come  in  quest  of  her,  and  with- 
out recognizing  their  mother  are  entertained  in  the  palace. 
Hypsipyle  is  quieting  the  child  with  a  song  and  a  rattle 
when  the  chorus  of  Nemean  women  enter.  Next 
certain  soldiers  arrive  from  the  host  which  the  seven 
chieftains  are  leading  against  Thebes.  Their  com- 
mander, the  prince  Amphiaraus,  explains  that  the  army 
is  in  need  of  water,  and  Hypsipyle  consents  to  show 
them  a  spring.  Later  she  returns  in  anguish  :  during  her 
absence  the  child  has  been  killed  by  a  great  serpent. 
Eurydice  is  about  to  slay  her,  when  she  appeals  to 
Amphiaraus,  who  pleads  her  cause  and  promises  Eury- 
dice that  the  Greeks  shall  found  a  festival  in  honour  of 
the  child.  (This  festival  is  that  of  the  famous  Nemean 
Games.)  He  sees  that  this  fatal  accident  is  a  bad  omen 
for  the  enterprise  of  the  Seven,  and  names  the  child 
Archemorus  *  instead  of  Opheltes.  Eurydice  is  ap- 
peased. Later  we  find  Hypsipyle  and  her  sons  made 
known  to  one  another,  and  the  god  Dionysus  appears, 
apparently  to  arrange  future  events. 

1  See  Oxyrhynchus  Papyri,  VI,  pp.  19-106. 

'-The  scholiast  on  Frogs,  v.  53,  which  was  performed  in  405  B.C. 
(the  year  after  Euripides'  death)  mentions  the  Hypsipyle  among  recent 
plays. 

3  The  critic  Didymus,  for  instance,  knew  the  Hypsipyle  better  than 
the  Bacchce.     For  "  Achelous  "  as  a  synonym  for  "  water  "  he  quotes  the 
former  play  rather  than  Baccha,  625.     See  Macrobius,  V,  xviii.  12. 

4  That  is,  "  the  beginning  of  doom  ". 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  805 

Though  there  is  one  difficulty  as  to  the  plot,  namely, 
that  we  do  not  know  what  function  was  assigned  to 
Hypsipyle's  sons  —  they  cannot  have  been  introduced 
merely  for  the  recognition-scene  —  the  whole  conception 
strikes  one  as  simple  and  masterly.  It  has  been  well 
remarked  l  that  while  a  modern  dramatist  would  have 
omitted  the  Theban  expedition,  "  nothing  seemed  to  the 
Greeks  worthy  of  contemplation  in  the  theatre  by  a 
great  people,  unless  it  had  some  connexion  with  the  ex- 
ploits and  the  history  of  nations.  .  .  .  On  the  same  canvas 
the  death  of  one  little  child  and  the  doom  of  the  seven 
chieftains  with  their  crowding  battalions  are  depicted  in 
a  perspective  which  sets  the  former  fatality  in  the  fore- 
ground. " 

The  captive  princess,  even  through  the  ruins  of  the 
text,  shines  forth  with  great  charm.  Her  whole  life 
centres  round  her  lost  children  and  the  brief  magical 
time  of  her  union  with  Jason.  The  chorus  reproach 
her  with  her  indifference  to  the  exciting  presence  of 
Adrastus'  great  army  —  she  will  think  of  nothing  save 
Argo  and  the  Fleece.  When  at  point  to  die  her  spirit 
flashes  back  to  those  old  days  in  a  few  words  of  amazing 
poignancy  :  — 


"  Ah,  prow  of  Argo  and  the  brine  that  flashed  into 
whiteness  !  ah,  my  two  sons  !  "  Her  talk  with  them 
towards  the  end  is  a  pathetic  and  lovely  passage  equal 
to  anything  Euripides  ever  wrote  in  this  kind. 

MELANIPPETHE  WISE  2  appears  to  have  been  a  drama 
of  unusual  personal  interest.  ^Eolus  espoused  Hippe, 
whose  daughter  Melanippe  became  by  Poseidon  mother 
of  twin  sons.  The  god  bade  her  hide  them  from 
^Eolus,  and  they  were  discovered  by  grooms  in  the  care 

1Hartung,  Eur.  Rest.  II,  p.  442. 

2  Mf\avimrr)  17  <ro$7j,  so  called  to  distinguish  it  from  M.  Secr^omr,  or 
Melanippe  in  Prison.  The  latter  play  seems  to  have  been  much  less 
important.  Unfortunately  there  is  often  a  doubt,  when  authorities  quote 
the  "Melanippe"  from  which  of  the  two  the  quotation  comes. 


20 


306  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

of  a  bull  and  a  cow.  They,  supposing  the  children 
miraculous  offspring  of  these  animals,  reported  their  dis- 
covery to  ^Eolus,  who  decided  to  expiate  the  portent  by 
burning  the  infants  alive.  Melanippe  was  instructed  to 
shroud  them  for  death.  In  order  to  save  her  children 
without  revealing  her  own  secret  she  denied  the  possi- 
bility of  such  portentous  births,  but  seems  to  have  found 
herself  forced  at  length  to  confess  in  order  to  prove  the 
natural  origin  of  the  infants,  ^olus  condemned  her  to 
be  blinded  and  imprisoned,  her  offspring  to  be  exposed. 
Her  mother  Hippe  appeared  as  dea  ex  machina1  and 
saved  her  kin. 

The  great  feature  of  this  play  was  the  heroine's 
speech  in  which  she  sought  to  convince  her  father  that 
such  a  portent  was  impossible.  Lines  from  the  opening 
of  this  argument  are  preserved  :  "  The  story  is  not  mine 
— from  my  mother  have  I  learned  how  Heaven  and  earth 
were  once  mingled  in  substance  ;  when  they  separated 
into  twain  they  engendered  and  brought  into  the  light 
of  day  all  creatures,  the  trees,  birds,  beasts,  nurslings  of 
the  sea,  and  the  race  of  men ".  The  speech  was  an 
elaborate  scientific  sermon  to  disprove  the  possibility  of 
miracles.  Similarly,  according  to  a  famous  story,  the 
drama  opened  originally  with  the  line  :  "  Zeus,  who- 
ever Zeus  may  be,  for  only  by  stories  do  I  know  of 
him  .  .  .  "  ;  but  this  open  agnosticism  gave  such  offence 
that  Euripides  produced  the  play  again  with  the  words : 
"  Zeus,  as  Truth  relates.  ..."  A  different  but  closely- 
connected  source  of  interest  is  the  fact  that  here 
Euripides  veiled  his  own  personality  less  thinly  than 
usual.  That  Melanippe  was  only  his  mouthpiece  appears 
to  have  been  a  recognized  fact.  Dionysius  of  Hali- 
carnassus 2  observes  that  it  presents  a  double  character, 
that  of  the  poet,  and  that  of  Melanippe ;  and  Lucian 3 
selects  the  remark  on  Zeus  in  the  prologue  as  a  case 

1  See  pp.  313-5. 

2  f%( (  8f  8irr\ovv  tr^jj/iia,  r<i  p.iv  rov  TTOITJTOV,  TO  8f  rov  irpo<r<airov  TOV  fv 
ro>  Spdpari,  rijj  MeAajnVn-ijs  (quoted  by  Nauck). 

*  Jupiter  Tragadus,  41. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  807 

where  the  poet  is  speaking  his  own  views.  The 
"  mother  "  from  whom  "  Melanippe  "  learned  her  philo- 
sophy has  been  identified  with  the  great  metaphysician 
and  scientist  Anaxagoras,  who  was  banished  from 
Athens  in  430  B.C.  ;  and  it  is  natural  to  suppose  that 
this  Melanippe  is  not  much  later  than  that  year,  perhaps 
much  earlier  x  in  view  of  the  strongly  didactic  manner.2 
Hartung  refers  to  this  play  the  splendid  fragment  :  — 

oA/3ios  oo-rir  TTJS  ia-Topias 


fir    ir-qfjLocruvT)  HTJT   (s 

irpdgfis  6pp.a>v, 

d\\'  dBavdrov  Kadopmv  (pvc 

n6<Tp.ov  ayjjpco,  irfj  re  (rvvtcrnj 

nal  urrrj  KCIL  oira>s. 

rots  8e  TOiOvrois  ovbeTTor'  aicr\p5>v 

epytav  /ifXe'rjj/ia  7rpocri£ei. 


"  Happy  is  he  who  hath  won  deep  learning.  He  setteth 
himself  neither  to  hurt  his  fellow-citizens  nor  towards 
works  of  iniquity,  but  fixeth  his  gaze  upon  the  ageless 
order  of  immortal  Nature,  the  laws  and  methods  of  its 
creation.  Unto  such  a  man  never  doth  there  cling  the 
plotting  of  base  deeds."  If  these  lines  point  at  Anaxa- 
goras and  belong  to  our  play,  the  two  significant  clauses 
which  defend  the  moral  character  of  the  philosopher  in 
question  indicate  the  year  430  itself. 

The  CRESPHONTES  had  immense  success  as  a  power- 
ful melodrama.  Polyphontes,  having  slain  his  brother 
Cresphontes,  King  of  Messenia,  seized  his  throne  and 
married  his  widow  Merope,  who  sent  her  infant  son 
Cresphontes  away  to  safe  keeping  in  ^Etolia.  When 
he  grew  up  he  returned  to  avenge  his  father.  At  this 
point  the  action  begins.  Cresphontes  seems  to  have 
delivered  the  prologue  ;  since  Polyphontes  fearing  his 
return  has  offered  a  reward  to  whoever  shall  slay  him, 
he  has  determined  to  win  the  usurper's  confidence  by 
claiming  to  have  destroyed  his  enemy.  Meanwhile, 
Merope,  alarmed  by  the  proclamation  of  the  king,  has 
sent  an  aged  slave  to  find  whether  Cresphontes  is  well  ; 

1  Hartung  assigns  it  to  448  B.C. 

a  Cp.  Aristotle's  criticism,  Poetic,  1454^:  rov  5e  dirpciroiis  <al  p/ 
dpfiorrovTos  (irapdftfiyfJM.)  .  .  .  fj  TT)S  MeAai/iVirjjr  pfjiris. 


308  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

he  returns  with  tidings  that  the  prince  has  disappeared 
from  y^tolia.  Merope  gives  her  son  over  for  lost,  and 
observing  the  youthful  stranger  who  is  received  with 
joy  by  the  king,  she  becomes  convinced  that  he  is  the 
murderer  of  her  son.  While  he  lies  asleep  she  steals 
upon  him  with  an  axe,  when  the  old  slave  recognizes 
the  stranger  and  stops  her  arm.  Mother  and  son  are 
united,  and  at  once  plot  to  slay  Polyphontes.  Merope 
pretends  to  be  reconciled  to  the  king,  who  in  his  joy  goes 
to  sacrifice,  accompanied  by  the  youth,  who  takes  ad- 
vantage of  a  suitable  moment  to  slay  his  enemy. 

Plutarch,  nearly  six  centuries  later,  testifies  l  to  the 
sensation  which  the  Recognition  caused  in  the  audience. 
Merope  herself  seems  to  have  been  a  figure  ranking  with 
Hecuba  in  the  Troades.  The  tidings  of  her  son's  death 
draw  from  her  words  which  in  their  quiet  dignity  of 
grief  have  something  of  Wordsworth  :  — 

Children  have  died  ere  now,  not  mine  alone, 
And  wives  been  widow'd.     Yea,  this  cup  of  life 
Unnumber'd  women  have  drain'd  it,  as  do  I.  ... 

.  .  .  Insistent  Fate, 
Taking  in  fee  the  lives  of  all  I  lov'd, 
Hath  made  me  wise. 

Probably  it  was  Merope  again  who  uttered  the 
famous  lines  which  advise  lament  over  the  newly-born 
and  a  glad  procession  to  accompany  the  dead.  The 
recognition-scene  is  singled  out  for  especial  praise  by 
Aristotle.2 

The  fragments  of  this  tragedy  include  a  perfect  jewel 
of  lyric  poetry,  a  prayer  to  Peace  :  — 

Eipjjva  ftadvir\ovTt  ical 

KaAAtcrTa  fjniKapiov  dtiov, 

f^Xoy  fj.oi  (TfBtv,  u>s  xpovi^fis. 

8e'8oi(ca  8f  p.f)  irpiv  TTOVOIS 

virfpftdXj)  p.f  yrjpaf, 

irpiv  trav  "xaplttrcrav  tapav  TrpoertSfti' 

•cat  KaAAt^opovs  aoiSar 

<pl\0(TT«pdvOVS  Tf   KU>pOVS. 
Wl  (J.OI,    TTOTVO,    TToXlV. 

rav  8*  ()(6pav  crrd<riv  ftpy'  air'  oi  — 
KU>V  rav  fj.iuvop.fvav  T    (piv 
T(pirop.(vai> 


Monilia,  no  D,  998  E.  2  Poetic,  1454*. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  309 

A  paraphrase  might  run  thus  : — 

0  Peace,  thou  givest  plenty  as  from  a  deep  spring  :  there  is  no  beauty 
like  unto  thine,  no,  not  even  among  the  blessed  gods. 

My  heart  yearneth  within  me,  for  thou  tarriest ;  I  grow  old  and  thou 
returnest  not. 

Shall  weariness  overcome  mine  eyes  before  they  see  thy  bloom  and 
thy  comeliness  ?  When  the  lovely  songs  of  the  dancers  are  heard  again, 
and  the  thronging  feet  of  them  that  wear  garlands,  shall  grey  hairs  and 
sorrow  have  destroyed  me  utterly  ? 

Return,  thou  Holy  One,  to  our  city  :  abide  not  far  from  us,  thou  that 
quenchest  wrath. 

Strife  and  bitterness  shall  depart,  if  thou  art  with  us  :  madness  and 
the  edge  of  the  sword  shall  flee  away  from  our  doors. 

Matthew  Arnold's  Merope  has  the  same  plot  and 
includes  a  recognition-scene  which  probably  resembles 
the  lost  original  closely.  His  conception  of  Polyphontes 
is  thoroughly  Euripidean. 

Of  the  other  lost  plays  little  can  be  said  here.  Still 
amid  this  faint  glow  of  star -dust  many  marvellous  things 
are  to  be  discerned — words  of  tremulous  tenderness 
from  the  Danae  describing  the  charm  of  infancy ;  a  line 
from  Ino  which  in  its  powerful  grimness  recalls  -^Eschylus, 
"  like  a  lone  beast,  he  lurks  in  caves  unlit "  ; l  out  of  the 
Polyidus  the  celebrated  query, 

Who  knows  of  life  that  it  is  aught  but  death, 

And  death  aught  else  than  life  beyond  the  grave  ?  * 

From  an  unknown  drama  comes  a  line  which  owes  its 
preservation  to  St.  Paul 3 : 

<pd(ipovo~iv  i]6t]  xprjcrd'  6/itXteu  KOKCU, 

"  evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners  ".  Euri- 
pides' cosmopolitan  sympathy  nowhere  finds  finer 
expression  than  in  the  distich 

Where'er  spreads  Heaven  the  eagle  cleaves  his  path  ; 
Where'er  lies  earth  the  righteous  are  at  home.4 

But   the  student    must  at   his    leisure  explore   the 

1  KOI\OIS  ev  avrpois  nXu^i/or  wore  6rjp  povos  (fr.  4-2 5)- 

2  TIS  8'  ol8(v  fl  TO  ffiv  p.(v  ftrri  Kardavflv, 
TO  Kardavfiv  8<  £fji>  (cdrw  vo/ii'frrat  ; 

3  i  Cor.  xv.  33. 
*Fr.  1034  :— 

airas  fitv  drjp  d(TG>  Trepao-tyios, 
arraaa  &  ^6a>v  ai>8pl  ytvvaitp  irarpis. 


310  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

marvels  of  these  rock-pools  left  by  the  retiring  ocean. 
One  majestic  passage1  from  the  Cretans  shall  suffice  to 
close  this  survey.  The  lines  are  from  a  march  sung  by 
the  Curetes  or  priests  of  the  Cretan  Zeus,  and  show  that 
even  in  the  Hellenic  world  the  monastic  spirit  was  not 
unknown  :— 

Thou  whom  the  Tyrian  princess  bare 

To  mighty  Jove,  thou  Lord  of  Crete, 
To  whom  her  hundred  cities  bow, 

Lo,  I  draw  near  thy  judgment-seat, 

Quitting  my  home,  yon  hallowed  place 
Where  beams  of  cypress  roof  the  shrine, 

By  far-brought  axes  lopped  and  hewn, 
Close  knit  by  oxen's  blood  divine. 

Pure  is  my  life's  unbroken  calm 

Since  Zeus  to  bliss  these  eyes  unsealed  ; 
The  feast  of  quivering  flesh  I  shared 

While  through  the  dark  strange  thunder  pealed. 

The  Mountain-Mother  heard  my  vows, 

And  saw  my  torch  the  darkness  ride  ; 
The  Hunter  named  me  for  his  priest, 

A  mail-clad  Bacchant  sanctified. 

Now  robed  in  white  I  keep  me  pure 

From  food  that  e'er  has  throbbed  with  breath  ; 

I  shun  the  new-born  infant's  cry, 
And  gaze  not  on  the  couch  of  death. 

It  now  remains  for  us  to  attempt  a  synthesis — to  set 
before  ourselves  as  clearly  as  may  be  the  whole  person- 
ality of  Euripides.  We  are  studying  not  the  programme 
of  a  politician,  but  the  spirit  and  method  of  a  great  artist, 
the  inspiration  of  a  great  teacher.  An  artist  has  other 
things  to  heed  than  a  superficial  consistency  of  presenta- 
tion ;  and  a  teacher  of  permanent  value  shows  his  fol- 
lowers not  what  to  think,  but  how  to  think — not  opinions, 
but  the  reasoned  basis  of  opinion.  Euripides  is  a  man 
not  of  dogmas,  nor  indeed  of  negations  ;  he  is  the  apostle 
of  a  spirit  which  blows  whither  it  lists,  setting  up  a 
healthful  circulation  of  tingling  life  throughout  regions 

*Fr.  47$. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  311 

which  have  languished  in  the  heavy  air  of  convention. 
His  work  forces  us  to  think  and  feel  for  ourselves,  not 
necessarily  to  think  and  feel  with  him. 

The  briefest  description  of  his  special  quality  is  that 
he  is  in  the  same  moment  a  great  artist  and  a  great 
rationalist — a  man  profoundly  conscious  of  the  beauty 
and  value  of  all  life,  all  existence,  all  energy,  and  yet  an 
uncompromising  critic  of  the  vesture  which  man  throws 
around  those  parts  of  the  Universe  which  are  subjected 
to  him.  No  man  has  ever  loved  and  expressed  beauty 
with  a  mind  less  swayed  by  illusion.  These  two  in- 
stincts, the  instinct  to  study  life  in  all  its  unforced  mani- 
festations, and  the  instinct  to  question  all  conventions, 
lie  at  the  root  of  his  work.  It  is  in  virtue  of  these  that 
he  has  been  called  enigmatic.  Like  Renan  he  was 
avrjp  8u//vxo9,  a  man  of  two  souls l ;  but  he  is  no  more 
an  enigma  than  others.  His  peculiarity  lies  herein, 
that  the  duality  of  nature  often  found  in  ordinary  men 
was  by  him  exhibited  at  the  heights  of  genius.  That 
is  why  he  so  often  seems  labouring  to  destroy  the 
effect  he  has  created  ;  he  is  "  inconsistent "  because  he 
is  equally  at  home  in  the  two  worlds  of  feeling  and 
of  thought.  Precisely  for  this  reason  he  created  a  new 
type  of  drama.  Horace  Walpole  wrote  that  "  Life  is 
a  comedy  to  those  who  think,  a  tragedy  to  those  who 
feel "  ;  thus,  when  a  genius  of  Euripides'  type  addressed 
itself  to  the  theatre,  the  result  was  drama  which  could 
not  but  shock  people  who,  bred  in  the  school  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  had  no  conception  of  "  tragedy  "  which  could  be  witty, 
light,  modern,  destructive.  Menander  is  the  successor 
of  Euripides,  not  of  Aristophanes. 

Anyone  who  follows  out  these  two  strands  of  instinct 
will  understand  much  that  might  seem  strange,  much 
that  gave  offence,  in  his  work.  It  will  be  well  therefore 
to  bring  together  the  faults  which  have  been  found  with 
him  in  ancient  and  in  later  times.  Leaving  on  one 
side,  since  it  is  by  no  means  certainly  a  reproach,  the 

i  Mr.  F.  Manning,  Scenes  and  Portraits  (Preface,  p.  viij). 


312  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

celebrated  remark1  of  Sophocles,  "  I  represent  people  as 
they  should  be,  Euripides  as  they  are,"  we  find  our  chief 
material  in  Aristophanes  and  Aristotle.  The  Frogs 
contains  an  elaborate  attack  upon  the  tragedian  which, 
whether  fair  or  not,  has  a  prima  facie  reasonableness. 
Euripides  is  twitted  with  moral  and  literary  offences. 
In  the  first  place,  his  predilection  for  depicting  the  power 
of  love,  especially  the  adulterous  or  incestuous  passions 
of  women2  and  the  sophistical  restlessness  of  mind  which 
he  inculcates,3  mark  him  as  a  corrupter  of  Athens.  On 
the  technical  side,  his  music  *  is  affected  and  decadent, 
the  libretto  5  of  his  choruses  is  both  elaborate  and 
jejune,  the  style  of  his  iambics  6  lacks  weight  and  dignity, 
his  prologues  7  are  tiresome  and  written  in  a  mechanical 
fashion.  Aristotle  in  his  turn  objects  to  certain  weak- 
nesses of  characterization  :  Menelaus  in  the  Orestes  is 
particularly  bad,  the  speech  of  Melanippe  —  no  doubt 
that  celebrated  oration  on  miracles  —  is  indecorous  and 
out  of  character  ;  in  the  Aulid  Ipkigenia  the  heroine  is 
inconsistent.8  He  gives  two  examples  9  of  the  irrational, 
-^Egeus  in  the  Medea  and  Menelaus  once  more  in  the 
Orestes.  Euripides'  use  of  the  deus  ex  machina  is  also 
often  bad  ;  he  instances  Medea's  miraculous  chariot. 
Lastly  there  is  the  famous  mixture10  of  praise  and 
blame  :  "  Euripides,  faulty  as  he  is  in  the  general 
management  of  his  subject,  is  yet  felt  to  be  the  most 
tragic  of  the  poets."  If  we  pass  now  to  modern  de- 
tractors, we  find  one  fault  overshadowing  all  the 
rest  —  bad  construction,  what  Aristotle  calls  "episodic" 
plots,  namely,  plays  the  several  scenes  of  which  are 
more  or  less  accidentally  combined  and  form  no  organic 
whole. 


1  Aristotle,   Poetic,     1460^:    So<f>oK\fjt  ?0»;  avrbs  fitv  olovs  8 
EvpnriSrjv  S(  oloi  dtriv. 

*  Frogs,  w.  850,  1043  S9-  *  Ibid.  954-8. 

*Ibid.  1304-8,  1314,  1348.  8  Ibid.  1309-63. 

6  Ibid.  1378-1410.  7  Ibid.  1198  sqq. 

8  Poetic,  14540.  9  Ibid.  1461**. 

10  Ibid.    1453°-      o    Evpiiri8i)s    ft  teal  TO.   oXXa   p.rj    tv    oltcovoftfl    dXXa 
yt  TG>V  iroirjrutv  0aiVrrcu. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  313 

There  is  truth  in  some  of  this  fault-finding  ;  whether 
we  are  to  regard  such  features  as  actually  blemishes  is 
another  matter.  Two  certainly  are  defects  of  the 
gravest  possible  description — "  episodic  "  plots  and  the 
deus  ex  machina.  If  a  man  produces  plays  which  have 
no  organic  unity,  or  which  at  the  close  of  the  action  are 
in  such  a  tangle  that  a  being  of  superhuman  informa- 
tion and  power  is  necessary  to  "  cut  the  knot,"  he  is  no 
"  unskilful  dramatist "  but  merely  a  blockhead,  for  he  can 
always  fling  his  rubbish  into  the  fire.  So  hopelessly 
damaging  are  these  two  accusations  that  one  really 
cannot  believe  Euripides  obnoxious  to  them.  One 
might  as  well  allege  that  Alexander  did  not  understand 
tactics,  or  that  Pericles  believed  Byzantium  was  in 
Sicily.  The  charge  of  faulty  construction  has  been 
considered  earlier  in  connexion  with  the  plays  which 
are  supposed  examples  thereof.  But  the  deus  ex  machina 
needs  a  few  words.  "  The  god  out  of  the  machine  "  is 
a  phrase  of  two  applications.  It  may  mean  a  deity 
brought  in  to  round  off  the  play  by  giving  information 
about  the  future  history  of  the  personages.  Or  the  god 
may  be  introduced  when  the  plot,  owing  to  the  human 
limitations  of  the  characters,  has  become  knotted  and 
progress  is  impossible  ;  then  a  being  who  miraculously 
knows  all  the  facts  appears  and  "  cuts  "  the  knot.  In 
the  first  case  the  epiphany  is  practically  outside  the 
drama  ;  in  the  second  it  is  only  too  vital  to  it.  Of  the 
first  case  there  are  five 1  instances  in  the  extant  plays  : 
to  these,  of  course,  our  grave  objection  cannot  apply. 
Of  the  second  type  there  are  seven2  examples  if  we 
regard  the  miraculous  car  of  Medea  as  a  "  deus ". 
Granted  the  story  which  is  known  to  the  audience,  such 
interventions  are  necessary.  Medea  cannot  escape  the 
vengeance  of  Corinth,  Orestes  the  verdict  of  the  Argive 

1  Andromache,  Electra,  Bacchce,  Rhesus,  and  the  original  text  of  the 
Iphigenia  at  Aulis  (see  Murray's  Apparatus  at    the  end  of  the  play). 
Aristotle  naturally  allows  such  as  these  (Poetic,  1454^) :  p7xav.V  xpr}crr^ov 

fir\  ra  ?£<»  TOV  8pdp.aroy,  KTt. 

2  In  the  extant  plays.     Of  course  there  were  others,  which  we  cannot 
discuss  with  knowledge,  e.g.  the  close  of  Melanippe  the  Wise. 


314  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

State,  without  supernatural  aid  ;  Theseus  would,  it 
might  seem,  never  have  been  persuaded  by  mortal 
witness  that  Hippolytus  is  innocent ;  in  the  Tauric 
Iphigenia  and  the  Helena^  nothing  but  a  miracle  can 
save  from  death  the  fugitives  who  as  a  matter  of 
"  history  "  reached  home  in  safety  :  the  Supplices  would 
end  without  the  formal  compact  between  rescuers  and 
rescued  if  the  goddess  did  not  intervene ;  as  for  the 
Ion,  Euripides'  contemporaries  knew  that  Delphi  still 
flourished,  so  that  the  annihilating  investigation  of  Ion 
must,  it  appeared,  have  been  somehow  arrested.  For 
these  seven  plays,  then,  we  can  choose  between  two 
theories  of  the  deus  ex  machina  (in  that  second  sense 
of  a  pseudo-dramatic  expedient).  The  first  theory  is 
that  the  poet  wishes  to  end  with  "historical  "  truth,  but 
in  the  course  of  his  action  has  so  blundered  that  he 
cannot  naturally  do  so ;  therefore  he  puts  forward  a 
god  who  asserts  that  the  action  shall  continue  as 
"history"  asserts  that  it  did;  so  might  a  competitor 
in  a  match  of  archery  employ  a  confederate  who, 
whenever  his  arrow  missed  the  target,  should  pick 
it  up  and  plant  it  in  the  white.  The  other  theory  is 
that  Euripides  intended  to  work  out  an  interesting 
situation  of  legend  as  a  study  in  natural  psychology  and 
social  development.  The  situation  according  to  story 
came  to  a  certain  end  ;  according  to  Euripides  that  was 
not  the  natural  end.  And  he  emphasizes  this  legendary 
distortion  by  pointing  out  clearly  that  to  square  nature 
and  the  story  nothing  less  than  a  miracle  is  required. 
To  assert  that  he  needed  the  supernatural  intervention 
to  save  his  play  is  absolutely  to  reverse  the  facts. 
Can  we  doubt  which  of  these  theories  is  sound  ? 

Two  further  questions  at  once  arise.  Why  did 
he  select  situations  from  misleading  legends  ?  And, 
is  there  then  no  pseudo- dramatic  deus  ex  machina  at 
all?  The  first  question  is  of  vital  importance.  It  is 

1  For  the  Iphigenia  carries  the  Helena  with  it  (see  the  discussion  of 
the  latter,  pp.  260  sqq.\  As  a  matter  of  cold  fact,  to  be  sure,  Theoclymenus 
could  never  have  overtaken  the  Greeks, 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  815 

incorrect  to  say  that  he  was  bound  by  convention 
to  the  traditional  stories ;  Phrynichus,  Agathon,  and 
Moschion  all  defied  this  "convention".  Euripides  was 
a  student  of  human  thought,  of  the  development  of 
belief,  as  well  as  a  dramatist.  Convinced  that  his 
contemporaries  held  false  beliefs  about  the  gods  and 
that  the  myths  were  largely  responsible  for  this,  hypno- 
tizing thought  by  their  beauty  and  paralyzing  logic 
by  their  authority,  he  sets  himself  to  show,  not  only 
that  they  are  untrue,  but  also  how,  though  untrue, 
they  ever  won  credence.  As  for  the  deus  ex  machina 
the  truth  is  that  he  does  not  exist  (save,  of  course,  in 
the  role  of  a  non-dramatic  narrator).  He  is,  like  the 
three  unities,  a  figment  based  on  uncritical  and  hasty 
reading.  Outside  this  poet  the  only  possible  case 
is  that  of  the  Philoctetes,  which  has  been  shown  no 
genuine  instance. 

We  may  now  return  to  the  objections  raised  by 
Aristophanes  and  Aristotle.  They  are  all  due  to  the 
two  instincts  we  have  described — his  interest  in  every 
manifestation  of  life,  and  his  stern  rationalism.  Most 
of  the  technical  flaws,  for  instance,  alleged  against 
him  are  proofs  that  he  was  attracted  by  the  possibilities 
of  his  own  art ;  he  is  constantly  testing  the  limits  to 
which  development  can  go.  The  iambics  of  the  Orestes, 
for  example,  are  extraordinarily  full  of  resolved  feet ; 
after  that  play  he  restrains  himself  more.  In  music 
too  he  appears  to  have  been  an  explorer  ;  at  any 
rate  the  fault  found  with  the  words  of  his  choruses 
points  to  a  development  like  the  modern,  in  which 
libretto  was  becoming  subservient  to  music.  The 
comic  poet,  again,  fastens  eagerly  upon  the  prologues, 
and  puts  into  the  mouth  of  ^Eschylus  a  famous  jest : — * 

^Esch. :  And  now,  by  Jove,  I'll  not  smash  each 
phrase  word  by  word,  but  with  heaven's  aid  I'll  ruin 
your  prologues  with — a  little  oil-flask. 

Eur. :  An  oil-flask  ?     You  .  .  .  my  prologues  ? 

1  Frogs,  1198-1247. 


316  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

sEsch. :  Just  one  little  flask.  You  write  so  that 
anything  will  fit  into  your  iambics — a  little  fleece,  a 
little  flask,  a  little  bag.  I'll  show  you  on  the  spot. 

Eur. :  Oh  !  you  will  ? 

sEsch. :  Yes. 

Dion. :  Now  you  must  recite  something. 

Eur. :  "  ^Egyptus,    as    the    far-spread    story    tells, 
With  fifty  sons  in  voyage  o'er  the  deep 
Landing  at  Argos  ..." 

^Esch. :  (interrupting)  ..."  lost  his  flask  of  oil  ". 
Several  other  absurd  instances  follow. 

This  celebrated  jest  means  (i)  that  Euripides  con- 
structs the  early  sentences  of  his  prologue  in  such  a 
way  that  a  subordinate  clause  (usually  containing  a 
participle)  leads  up  to  a  short  main  clause  at  the  end 
of  the  sentence  ;  (ii)  that  his  prologues  descend  to 
trivial  details  ;  (iii)  that  the  c&sura  occurs  always  in  the 
third  foot ;  (iv)  that  he  is  viciously  addicted  to  resolved 
feet  The  tragedian  can  be  defended  from  these 
charges,  such  as  they  are,  but  the  idea  at  the  back  of 
Aristophanes'  mind  is  true,  namely,  that  these  pro- 
logues are  often  dull  performances.  Probably  the 
poet  did  not  intend  much  more.  He  wishes  to  put 
his  hearers  au  fait  with  the  precise  legend  and  the 
precise  point  with  which  he  is  concerned ; l  as  is  often 
said,  these  passages  take  the  place  of  a  modern  play- 
bill. 

Later  in  the  Frogs  Dionysus  produces  a  huge  pair 
of  scales  ;  each  is  to  utter  a  line  into  his  scale-pan,  and 
the  heavier  line  wins.  Euripides  declaims  into  his  pan 
the  opening  line  of  the  Medea,  eW  axfreX  'A/yyovs  JJLTJ 
Sia7rracr#cu  o-/ca<£o5,  and  his  rival  ^Tre/a^eie  7rora/xe 
ftovvojjioi  T  eTrtcrrpo^at.  Dionysus  absurdly  explains 
that  the  latter  wins  because  he  has  put  in  water  like  a 
fraudulent  woollen-merchant,  while  Euripides  has  offered 

1  He  seems  in  private  conversation  to  have  maintained  the  necessity 
of  this  ;  compare  the  criticism  of  vtschylus  which  he  utters  in  the  Frogs, 
1122:  ao-a$»)f  yap  r)v  tv  rjj  (f>pd(T(i  r£>v  Trpay/jMTWv.  (p.r.jr.  is  precisely 
"prologue  "  in  the  Euripidean  sense. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  817 

a  "word  with  wings".  Underlying  this  nonsense  is 
the  truth  that  the  ^schylean  line  is  ponderous  and 
slow,  that  of  Euripides  light  and  rapid  ;  it  is  like  con- 
trasting Marlowe  and  Fletcher.  The  difference  is  not 
between  good  and  bad,  but  between  old  and  new. 
-/Eschylus'  iambic  style  is  fitted  most  admirably  for  his 
purpose.  But  Euripides  has  not  the  same  purpose  — 
that  is  all.  It  is  one  of  his  most  remarkable  innovations 
that  he  practically  invented  the  prose-drama.  A  very 
great  deal  of  his  "  verse"  is  simply  prose  which  can  be 
scanned.  To  compare  such  a  passage1  as  : 

rj£fi  yap  avros  <TT)v  ddpapra  KOI  TfKva 


H€vovTi  8'  avrov  irdvra  <rol 

rji  T  d(T<paX(ia  KtpSavels  •  iroh.iv  8e  <rr)v 

fit)  irplv  rapd^rjs  irplv  r68'  fv  dtcrdai,  TtKVOv, 

or  a  hundred  others,  with  the  beacon-speech  in  Agamem- 
non or  Athena's  charge  to  the  Areopagite  court,  is  to 
ignore  the  whole  point  of  a  literary  revolution.  Who 
would  set  a  page  of  Hedda  Gabler's  conversation  against 
an  extract  from  Macbeth,  and  affirm  that  Ibsen  could 
not  write  dialogue  ? 

Ibsen,  indeed,  it  is  particularly  instructive  to  bear  in 
mind  here.  According  to  him  "  the  golden  rule  is  that 
there  is  no  golden  rule".2  Dr.  Stockman's  nobility 
consists  in  telling  the  truth  at  all  costs.  Gregers  Werle 
insists  on  that  course,  and  is  seen  to  be  a  meddlesome 
prig  who  ruins  his  friend's  home.  Here  the  Greek  and 
the  Norwegian  agree  heartily  ;  for  the  "  sophistry  " 
with  which  many  at  Athens  were  disgusted  is  only 
Euripides'  way  of  putting  his  conviction  that  there  is  no 
fixed  rule  of  conduct,  still  less  any  fixed  rule  for  our 
self-satisfied  attempts  to  praise  or  blame  the  abnormal. 
An  impulse  of  pity  ruins  Creon  in  the  Medea  ;  Lycus 
in  the  Heracles  turns  his  back  on  mercy,  and  is 
destroyed  also.  The  pride  of  glorious  birth  nerves 
Macaria  to  heroism  ;  of  Achilles  it  makes  merely 
a  pathetic  sham.  Consciousness  of  sin  wrecks  and 

1  Here.  Fur.,  60  1  sqq.  2  Mr.  G.  B.  Shaw. 


318  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

tortures  Phaedra,  while  to  Helen  in  Orestes  it  means 
little  more  than  a  picturesque  melancholy.  Hermione 
in  Andromache  and  Creusa  both  go  to  all  lengths  in 
their  passionate  yearning  for  domestic  happiness  ;  one 
destroys  her  husband  and  her  own  future,  the  other 
reaps  deeper  bliss  than  she  dared  to  hope.  Iphigenia 
and  Hippolytus  serve  the  same  goddess,  but  amid  what 
different  atmospheres  and  diverse  destinies !  This  con- 
sciousness that  effort  brings  about  results  different  from 
its  aims,  that  chance,  whatever  chance  may  be,  is  too 
potent  to  allow  any  faith  in  orthodox  deities,  only  in 
moods  of  despair  wrings  from  the  poet  such  outcry  as 
Hecuba's,  that  Fate  is  "  a  capering  idiot  'V  But  it  has 
planted  surely  in  his  mind  the  conviction  that  there  is 
no  golden  rule  of  conduct.  And  hence  that  "love  of 
forensic  rhetoric  "  of  which  we  hear  so  much — each  case 
must  be  considered  on  its  own  merits. 

To  this  agnosticism  we  owe  not  only  that  treat- 
ment of  religious  legend  which  we  have  already  studied 
but  the  poet's  greatest  achievement.  Socrates,  because, 
as  he  said,  he  could  not  understand  metaphysics  or 
astronomy,  gave  his  attention  to  man.  His  friend 
because  he  despaired  of  a  satisfying  theology  threw  his 
genius  into  psychological  drama.  The  centre  of  his 
interest  is  the  human  heart.  Only  one  fact  about 
destiny  can  be  stated  as  consistently  held  by  him, 
namely,  that  the  spring  of  action  and  the  chief  factor  in 
happiness  or  misery  is,  not  the  will  of  Heaven  or  dog- 
matic belief,  but  the  nature  (Averts)  of  the  individual.2 
Because  he  studies  sin,  not  to  condemn  but  to  under- 
stand, he  has  earned  that  reproach  of  Aristophanes  who 
rages  at  his  predilection  for  Phasdras  and  Sthenebceas. 
What  attracted  him  was  not  a  desire  to  gloat  or  even  to 
pardon  ;  it  was  the  fact  that  the  sinners  he  depicts  are 

1  Troades,  vv.  1204-6.     Cp.  Helena,  1140-3. 

a  See  Mr.  W.  H.  S.  Jones,  The  Moral  Standpoint  of  Euripides,  pp. 
28  sq.  This  view  is  also  set  forth  by  Jebb,  The  Growth  and  Influence  of 
Classical  Greek  Poetry,  p.  218,  and  by  Nestle,  Euripides  der  Dichter  der 
Gr.  Aufkliirung,  p.  174. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  319 

so  intensely  alive.  A  being  dead  in  virtue  engaged  his 
interest  less  than  one  who,  however  evilly,  existed  with 
vigour.  To  this  passionate  interest  in  human  life  can 
be  referred  as  basis  all  the  other  themes  on  which  he 
spent  study.  Religion,  as  we  have  found,  only  attracts 
him  because  it  guides  or  misleads  conduct.  His  political 
studies  have  little  concern  with  ethnology  or  economics  ; 
they  are  only  an  expansion  to  a  wider  field  of  this  same 
interest  in  sheer  humanity.  Philosophy  and  natural 
science  are  of  value  for  him,  as  for  Lucretius,  in  that 
they  provide  an  escape  from  paralyzing  superstition. 
If  they  are  presented  as  a  refuge  from  the  facts  of  life, 
he  will  have  none  of  them.  When  Electra1  seeks  in  her 
knowledge  of  astronomy  a  far-fetched  consolation  for 
self-fostered  misery,  she  strikes  us  not  as  heroic  but  as 
own  kin  to  the  febrile  "intellectuals"  of  Tchekov's 
Cherry  Orchard  or  the  novels  of  Dostoevsky. 

His  dislike  of  convention  in  morals  is  answered  by 
his  originality  in  portraiture  as  well  as  in  dramatic 
situations.  Nothing  is  more  thrilling  than  to  observe  how 
in  the  hands  of  a  great  realist  whole  masses  of  human 
beings  come  to  life.  What  was  the  background  of  one 
novelist  suddenly  begins  in  the  pages  of  another  to  stir, 
to  articulate  itself,  to  move  forward  and  discover  a 
language.  "  The  men "  commanded  by  Captain  Os- 
borne  in  Vanity  Fair  become  Private  Ortheris  or 
Corporal  Mulvaney  in  the  pages  of  Kipling.  So  in 
Euripides  the  dim  and  familiar  background  of  "  bar- 
barians "  who  existed  merely  to  give  colour  and  outline 
to  Achilles  and  Odysseus,  the  women  who  bore  the 
necessary  children  and  ground  the  needed  flour,  the 
henchmen  without  whom  horses  would  not  be  groomed 
or  trees  felled,  suddenly  awake  and  reveal  passions  of 
love  and  hatred,  pathetic  histories,  opinions  about 
marriage  and  the  grave.  In  every  age  the  man  who 
points  to  the  disregarded,  the  dormant,  hitherto  sup- 
posed securely  neutral  and  plastic,  who  cries  "it  is 

3  Orestes^  w.  982  sqq.  :  /xoXot/xt  rav  ovpavov  KTC. 


320  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

alive,  watching  you  and  reflecting,  waiting  its  time  " — 
such  a  man  is  met  in  his  degree  with  the  reception 
given  to  Euripides  by  the  elder  generation  of  Athenians. 
The  clamour  of  "  crank  !  "  "  faddist !  "  "  this  is  the  thin 
end  of  the  wedge,"  and  kindred  watchwords,  may  be 
found  translated  into  brilliant  Attic  by  Aristophanes. 
But  in  virtue  of  these  same  interests  Euripides  became 
the  Bible  of  later  Greek  civilization.  He  would  have 
passed  into  a  fetish  had  it  not  been  that  the  destruc- 
tively critical  side  of  his  genius  prevented  the  most 
narrow-minded  from  reducing  him  to  a  system.  To 
the  last  he  remains  inconclusive,  provocative,  refreshing. 
On  the  other  side  his  sensitiveness  to  all  aspects  of 
life — his  "  feeling  for  Beauty  "  to  use  the  familiar  phrase 
— held  him  back  from  mere  cynicism.  The  Hippolytus 
remains  as  perhaps  the  most  glorious  support  in  literature 
for  unflinching  facing  of  facts — it  shows  triumphantly 
how  a  man  may  feel  all  the  sorrow  and  waste  which 
wreck  happiness,  yet  declare  the  endless  value  and 
loveliness  of  life.  We  may  detect  two  aspects  in  which 
this  joy  in  life  shows  itself  most  markedly — his  romance 
and  his  wit. 

Romance  is  not  improperly  contrasted  with  "classic- 
ism," but  as  few  Greek  or  Roman  writers  are  classical 
in  the  rigid  sense  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  romantic 
features  outcropping  at  every  period  of  their  literature. 
Euripides  himself  is  the  most  romantic  author  between 
Homer  and  Appuleius,  whatever  our  definition  of 
romance  may  be.  R.  L.  Stevenson's  remark  that 
"  romance  is  consciousness  of  background,"  Hegel's 
doctrine  that  "  romantic  art  is  the  straining  of  art  to  go 
beyond  itself,"  *  and  a  more  recent  dictum  that  "  romance 
is  only  the  passion  which  is  in  the  face  of  all  realism,"  : 
each  of  them  definitely  recalls  some  feature  of  Euripides' 
work  already  discussed.  A  modern  writer  with  whom 
he  can  be  fruitfully  compared,  at  this  point  especially, 
is  Mr  Bernard  Shaw.  In  many  characteristics  these 

1  See  Mr.  E.  F.  Carritt,  The  Theory  of  Beauty,  p.  156. 
8  Ibid.  p.  89. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  321 

two  dramatists  are  notably  alike  :  their  ruthless  insistence 
upon  questioning  all  established  reputations,  whether  of 
individuals,  nations,  or  institutions  ;  their  conviction  that 
there  is  no  absolute  standard  of  conduct ;  their  blazing 
zeal  for  justice  ;  their  mastery  of  brilliant  lithe  idiom. 
But  in  their  feeling  about  romance  they  diverge  violently. 
Perhaps  the  largest  ingredient  in  Mr.  Shaw's  strength 
is  his  hatred  and  distrust  of  emotion  and  of  that  spirit, 
called  romance,  which  organizes  emotion  and  sees  in 
it  a  basic  part  of  life.  But  Euripides  appreciates  it  all 
the  more  highly  that  he  is  not  enslaved  by  it.  Even  in 
such  ruthless  dramas  as  the  Medea  and  the  Iphigenia  in 
Tauris  one  remarks  how  the  thrill  and  beauty  of  life 
gleams  out,  if  only  as  a  bitter  memory  or  a  present  pain 
of  contrast — the  magic  fire-breathing  bulls  and  the  heapy 
coils  of  the  glaring  dragon  in  the  remote  land  where 
Jason  won  his  quest,  the  strange  seas,  deserted  beaches, 
and  grim  savages  among  whom  Iphigenia  cherishes  her 
thoughts  of  childhood  in  Argos.  The  same  sense  of 
glamour  which  inspires  early  in  his  life  such  a  marvel- 
lous flash  as  the  description  of  Rhesus'  steeds : 

0TiX/3owcri  S'wore  TTOTOfuov  KVKVOV  rrrepov,1 

and  indeed  the  whole  dashing  buoyant  drama — this 
passion  survives  the  shames  and  disillusionment  wrought 
by  twenty-five  years  of  tyranny  and  war  ;  it  persists 
even  in  those  black  but  glorious  hours  when  he  wrote 
the  Troades  and  at  the  close  of  his  life  culminates  in  the 
splendours  of  the  Bacchce.  No  attentive  student  of  his 
work  can  ignore  this  effect,  but  if  we  possessed  all  his 
plays  we  should  be  in  no  danger  of  accepting  the  idea 
that  Euripides  is  beyond  all  other  things  a  bitter  realist. 
The  Andromeda  and  the  Phaethon  would  have  redressed 
the  balance. 

The  wit  of  Euripides  cannot  easily  be  discussed  ;  it 
often  depends  upon  idiomatic  subtlety,  and  must  almost 
disappear  in  translation.  But  frequently,  again,  it  con- 
sists in  the  method  of  handling  a  situation.  Just  as 

]v.  618. 

21 


322  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

the  playwright  often  makes  of  his  drama,  among  other 
things,  an  elaborate  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  myth,  so 
is  he  capable  of  writing  a  whole  scene  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye.  The  clearest  example  is  the  Helena  ;  Menelaus' 
stupefaction  at  learning  that  Egypt  contains  an  Helen, 
daughter  of  Zeus,  is  indeed  definite  comedy  : 


Ato;  8' 

aAX'  q  TIS  tern  Zijvos  ovop.'  eva>v  dvfjp 

NeiXou  »rap'  o^das;  fls  yap  o  ye  KOT  ovpavov.1 

"  And  she  told  me  that  the  lady  was  a  daughter  of 
Zeus  !  What  !  is  there  some  person  called  Zeus  living 
beside  the  Nile?  There's  one  in  Heaven,  to  be  sure, 
but  that's  another  story."  Such  a  translation  gives 
perhaps  the  intention  of  the  words  and  colloquial  rhythm 
of  the  last  sentence.  Here  is  comedy,  but  that  of  Con- 
greve,  not  of  Aristophanes.  The  distinction  is  impor- 
tant. Euripides  is  less  comic  than  witty.  As  we  turn 
his  pages  we  rarely  laugh,  but  a  thousand  times  we 
break  into  the  slight  smile  of  intellectual  enjoyment  ; 
one  delight  in  reading  an  Euripidean  play  —  tragedy 
though  it  be  —  is  the  same  as  that  aroused  by  the  work 
of  Meredith.  Euripides'  sense  of  the  ludicrous  is  a  part 
of  his  restlessness  in  conception.  Again  and  again  he 
startles  us  by  placing  at  some  tragic  moment  a  little 
episode  which  passes  the  pathetic  and  becomes  absurd. 
When  Clytaemnestra  and  Achilles  bring  each  other 
into  awkward  perplexity  over  the  espousal  of  Iphigenia 
the  effect  is  amusing,  and  the  intervention  of  the  old 
slave  who  puts  his  head  out  of  the  tent-door  must  pro- 
voke a  smile,  even  though  we  realize  that  he  has  misery 
and  death  on  his  lips.2  After  Creusa  has  given  her  in- 
structions for  the  assassination  of  Ion,  it  is,  though  natural, 
yet  quaint  for  the  prospective  murderer  to  reply  :  "  Now 
do  you  retire  to  your  hotel  ".3  In  the  Medea  the  whole 
episode  of  ^geus,  to  which  Aristotle  objected  as  "  irra- 
tional," is  tinged  with  the  grotesque.  That  the  horrible 
story  of  Medea's  revenge  must  hang  upon  a  slow-witted 

1  Helena,  vv.  489  sqq.         -  Iph.  Aul.,  w.  819  sgg.         *  Ion,  v.  1039. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  323 

amiable  person  like  ^geus  is  natural  to  the  topsy- 
turviness  of  life  as  the  dramatist  saw  it.  In  fact,  just  as 
Euripides  on  the  linguistic  side  practically  invents  the 
prose-drama,  so  in  the  strictly  dramatic  sphere  he 
invents  tragicomedy.  Nothing  can  induce  him  to  keep 
tears  and  laughter  altogether  apart.  The  world  is  not 
made  like  that,  and  he  studies  facts,  depicting  the 
phases  of  great  happenings  not  as  they  "ought  to  be" 
but  "  as  they  are  ".  He  would  have  read  with  amused 
delight  that  quaint  sentence  of  Dostoevsky  :  "  All  these 
choruses  sing  about  something  very  indefinite,  for  the 
most  part  about  somebody's  curse,  but  with  a  tinge  of 
the  higher  humour  ".l  It  is  indeed  significant  that 
sparkles  of  incidental  mirth  are  (so  far  as  a  modern 
student  can  tell)  commonest  in  that  most  heartbreaking 
play  Orestes.  One  dialogue  between  Orestes  and 
Menelaus,  to  take  a  single  passage,  is  a  blaze  of  wit — 
it  exemplifies  every  possible  grade  of  witticism,  from 
the  downright  pun 2  to  subtle  varieties  of  iambic 
rhythm.  Perhaps  the  most  light-hearted  and  entertain- 
ing example3  is  provided  by  Helen  who  (of  all  casuists !) 
evolves  a  theory  of  sin  as  a  method  of  putting  her 
tigerish  niece  into  good  humour  and  so  inducing  her  to 
perform  for  Helen  an  awkward  task.  Even  more  skil- 
ful, but  ghastly  in  its  half-farcical  horror,  is  the  dialogue 
between  Orestes  and  the  escaped  Phrygian  slave. 

Later  ages  of  Greek  civilization  looked  upon  Euri- 
pides as  a  mighty  leader  of  thought,  a  great  voice 
expressing  all  the  wisdom  of  their  fathers,  all  the  pains 
and  perplexities  familiar  to  themselves.  After  generations 
had  passed  it  was  easy  to  dwell  upon  one  side  only  of 
his  genius,  and  for  Plutarch  or  Stobseus  to  regard  him 
as  the  poet  of  sad  wisdom  : — 

Amongst  us  one, 

Who  most  has  suffer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne  ; 

1  The  Possessed,  Ch.  I.  2  v.  674  :  &  rrarpbs  opu/ie  6<1f. 

8  Orestes,  vv.  71-111. 


324  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  !  J 

But  his  own  contemporaries,  living  in  the  days  before 
^gospotami  and  knowing  the  many  facets  of  his  spirit, 
could  not  so  well  accept  a  man  of  such  contradictions, 
who  was  in  strange  earnest  about  things  they  felt  to 
be  indifferent,  and  who  smiled  at  such  odd  moments. 
Euripides  must  often  have  felt  himself  very  lonely  in 
Athens.  "  My  soul,"  he  cries,  "  lay  not  hold  upon  words 
of  subtlety.  Why  admit  these  strange  high  thoughts, 
if  thou  hast  no  peers  for  audience  to  thy  serious  mus- 
ings ?  "  2  And  again  ;  — 

Though  far  beyond  my  ken  a  wise  man  dwell, 
Across  the  earth  I  greet  him  for  a  friend.3 

It  may  be  that  Europeans  of  our  own  day  are  better 
fitted  to  estimate  him  aright  than  enthusiasts  under  the 
Empire  or  his  companions  who  saw  him  too  close  at 
hand.  During  the  last  half-century  we  have  witnessed 
great  changes  which  have  their  counterpart  in  the  Athens 
for  which  he  wrote.  Hopes  have  been  realized  only 
to  prove  disappointments  and  the  source  of  fresh  per- 
plexities. In  England  the  spread  of  knowledge  has 
resulted  not  in  a  cultivated,  but  in  a  mentally  restless 
people.  Universal  ability  to  read  has  for  its  most  obvious 
fruit  not  wider  knowledge  of  literature,  but  more  news- 
papers and  a  rank  jungle  of  "  popular  "  writing.  Simi- 
larly at  Athens  the  sophists  had  produced  mental  avidity 

1  M.  Arnold,  The  Scholar-Gipsy.    Cp.  Mrs.  Browning's  well-known 
lines  on  "  Our  Euripides  the  human  ". 
.  916:— 


o)i'  fliyyavt  jj.v6u>r,  ^v^f  ' 
TI  ir(picr(Ta  <ppovtis,  ft  fJifj  ft.f\\.(is 
(TffjLvvvecrdai  trap'  o/xo/otr  ; 
»  Fr.  894  :— 

(ro<pbv  yap  avftpa,  ttav  (teas  vairj  ^dovos, 
KOV  ILTJITOT  ocreroij  tlcriba),  npivu>  0/Xov. 

And  Nestle  (p.  368)  aptly  quotes  from  Schiller's  Don  Carlos  (III,  10)  : 

Das  Jahrhundert 

1st  meinem  Ideal  nicht  reif.     Ich  lebe 
Ein  burger  derer,  welche  kommen  werden. 


THE  WORKS  OF  EURIPIDES  825 

where  there  was  no  quickening  of  spiritual  vigour  to 
correspond.  Another  fact  of  vital  import  has  been  the 
rise  of  our  working-class  to  solidarity  and  political  power  : 
it  probably  resembles  that  "demos"  which  Cleon  led 
more  closely  than  "the  masses"  with  which  Peel  or 
Russell  had  to  deal.  Again,  experience  of  war  has 
shown  how  small  is  the  effect  which  settled  government, 
social  reform,  and  education  have  exercised  upon  the 
raw,  primitive,  human  instincts,  both  base  and  noble.  In 
Greece,  the  empire  of  Athens,  'with  its  tyranny  and 
selfishness,  and  the  Peloponnesian  war  which  had  pro- 
duced a  frightful  corruption  of  conduct  and  ideals,1  tainted 
society  with  that  cynicism  (dveuSeia)  of  which  Euripides 
so  often  speaks.  Just  as  we  are  severed  by  a  wide  gulf 
from  the  crude  but  not  ignoble  certainty,  the  superficial 
worship  of  progress  which  marked  the  Victorian  era,  so 
was  Euripides  severed  from  the  "men  of  Marathon" 
for  whom  /Eschylus  wrote. 

So  it  is  that  we  can  judge  the  poet  of  "  the  Greek  en- 
lightenment " 2 — or  rather  of  the  Athenian  disillusionment 
—better  than  most  generations  of  his  readers.  To  aid 
us,  there  have  naturally  arisen  writers  to  voice,  in  a 
manner  often  like  his,  our  own  disappointment  and  our 
renewed  interest  in  parts  of  life  and  the  world  which  we 
had  ignored  as  unmeaning  or  barren.  The  disinherited 
are  coming  into  their  own.  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  has 
written  of  the  English  peasant  with  a  richness  and  pro- 
fundity unknown  since  Shakespeare.  He  offers  indeed 
another  interesting  analogy  with  Euripides  :  while  the 
critics  are  concerned  with  his  "  pessimism  "  he  remains 
for  an  unsophisticated  reader  a  splendid  witness  to  the 
majesty  and  charm  of  the  immense  slow  curves  of  life, 
the  deep  preciousness  which  glows  from  the  gradual  pro- 
cesses of  nature  and  that  dignity  of  mere  existence  which 
survives  all  sin  and  effort.  Tess  of  the  D*  Urbervilles  is 

1  See  the  celebrated  sketch  of  progressive  degradation  in  Thucydides 
(HI,  82,  83). 

2  Dr.  W.  Nestle's  work  is  entitled  Euripides  der  Dichter  der  griechis- 
chen  Aufklarung. 


326  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

the  best  modern  parallel  to  Hippolytus.  Meanwhile  M. 
Anatole  France  has  given  us  many  an  example  of  that 
ironical  wit  of  which  the  Greek  poet  is  so  consummate 
a  master.  Another  Frenchman,  Flaubert,  has  set  as 
the  climax  to  his  dazzling  phantasy,  La  Tentation  de 
St.  Antoine,  an  expression  in  un-attic  vehemence  and 
elaboration  of  that  passionate  sympathy  with  all  existence 
which  blazes  in  the  lyrics  of  the  Bacch<z — a  yearning 
which  Arnold  in  the  Scholar-Gipsy  has  uttered  in  milder 
and  still  more  haunting  language. 

There  is  no  final  synthesis  of  Euripides.  Through- 
out his  life  he  held  true  to  those  two  principles,  the 
worship  of  beauty,  and  loyalty  to  the  dry  light  of  intelli- 
gence. Glamour  never  blinded  him  to  sin  and  folly  ; 
misery  and  coarse  tyranny  never  taught  his  lips  to  for- 
swear the  glory  of  existence.  One  of  his  own  noblest 
songs  sets  this  triumphantly  before  us * : — 

ou  Travcro/iat  ray  Xapiras 

Movo-aif  a-vyKarafjLeiyvvs, 
dSt'orai/  avfryiav. 
P.TI  £<0T)v  p.(T*  a/jiovcrias, 
aiel  8'  (v  OTf<pdvouriv  flrjv. 

11 1  will  not  cease  to  mingle  the  Graces  with  the  Muses 
—the  sweetest  of  fellowships.  When  the  Muses  desert 
me,  let  me  die  ;  may  the  flower-garlands  never  fail  me." 
The  Graces  and  the  Muses — such  is  his  better  way  of 
invoking  Beauty  and  Truth,  the  two  fixed  stars  of  his 
life-long  allegiance. 

1  Here.  Fur.,  673  sqq. 


CHAPTER  VI 
METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

§  I.    INTRODUCTION 

POETRY  is  illuminating  utterance  consisting  of 
words  the  successive  sounds  of  which  are  ar- 
ranged according  to  a  recurrent  pattern.  The 
soul  of  poetry  is  this  illumination,  its  body  this  recurrent 
pattern  of  sounds ;  and  it  is  with  the  body  that  we  are 
now  to  deal.  At  the  outset  we  must  distinguish  carefully 
between  rhythm  and  metre.  Rhythm  is  the  recurrence 
just  mentioned — the  structure ;  metre  is  the  gathering 
together  of  sounds  into  masses  upon  which  rhythm  shall 
do  its  work.  Metre,  so  to  put  it,  makes  the  bricks, 
while  rhythm  makes  the  arch. 

Greek  metre  is  based,  not  upon  stress-accent,1  but 
upon  quantity — the  length  of  time  needed  for  the  pro- 
nunciation of  a  syllable.  In  English  the  line 

My  bosom's  lord  sits  lightly  in  his  throne 

is  "  scanned  "  (that  is  to  say,  marked  off  into  "  feet " — 
the  metrical  units)  as  a  series  of  five  iambi ;  the  iambus 
being  a  foot  which  consists  of  an  unaccented,  followed 
by  an  accented,  syllable.  The  word  "  bosom's  "  can 
stand  where  it  does  because  the  stress  of  the  voice 
naturally  falls  upon  the  first  syllable  of  "bosom";  to 
begin  a  line  with  "my  serene  bosom  "  would  clearly  be 
wrong.  The  length  of  the  syllables  has  no  effect  on  the 
scansion.  That  "sits"  needs  as  long  a  time  for  its 

1  A  totally  different  thing  from  the  written  Greek  accents  ',  \  and  ", 
which  refer  to  pitch,  not  stress. 

327 


328  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

utterance  as  the  first  syllable  of  "  lightly  "  does  not  alter 
the  fact  that  "  sits  light- "  is  an  accentual  iambus. 

Greek  words,  on  the  other  hand,  as  metrical  material, 
are  considered  only  from  the  quantitative  point  of  view, 
not  the  accentual.  The  voice-stress  in  the  word  Xdyous 
rests  upon  the  first  syllable,  but  the  word  is  an  iambus, 
a  "  short "  followed  by  a  "  long  "  (marked  respectively 
thus  «-).  Whereas  an  English  blank  verse  consists  of 
five  accentual  iambi,  e.g. 

To  £nt|ertafn  |  divfne  |  Zenocr|atd, 

the  corresponding  verse  of  all  the  Greek  dramatists  is 
composed  of  six  feet  each  of  which  is  theoretically  a 
quantitative  iambus,  and  most  of  which  actually  are  such. 
Thus  Andromache,  v.  241  is  to  be  scanned 

\J  —  V*»     ~      <_»          ~     \^  —      <^t          —       \J      — 

TI  8  ou  |  yvvai£\t  ravr\a  7rpcoT|a  7ravT\a^ov. 

When  is  a  syllable  long  and  when  short?  A  few 
rules  will  settle  all  but  a  minority.  AIL  syllables  are 
long— 

(i)  Which  contain  a  necessarily  long  vowel  (17  or  w), 
e.g.  nyv,  T(ov. 

(ii)  Which  contain  a  diphthong  or  iota  subscript,  e.g. 
01^05,  cuyou/xev,  /DaSi(U5,  save  that  the  first  syllable  of  TTOLO) 
and  TOIOVTOS  (and  their  parts)  is  often  short. 

(iii)  Which  end  with  a  double  consonant  (£,  £,  i//), 
e.g.  o£os,  e£o>,  ei//au(ra. 

(iv)  Which  have  the  circumflex  accent,  e.g.  vplv,  /xvs. 

Most  syllables  are  long  the  vowel  of  which  is  followed 
by  two  consonants.  But  there  is  some  difficulty  about 
this  very  frequent  case.  It  can  arise  in  three  ways  : — 

(a)  Both  consonants  may  be  in  the  same  word  as  the 
vowel.  Then  the  syllable  is  long,  save  when  the  con- 
sonants are  (i)  a  voiced  stop  (/8,  y,  8)  followed  by  p  ; 
or  (ii)  a  voiceless  stop  or  spirant  (K,  IT,  r  ;  0,  <f>,  ^) 
followed  by  a  liquid  or  nasal  (X,  p,  p.,  v) — in  both  of 
which  cases  the  syllable >can  be  counted  long  or  short  at 
pleasure.  Thus  e<rp.evy  o^p^r),  avSpos  ;  but  the  first 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY    329 

syllables  of  i8/ns,  TCKVOV,  77077x09  are  "  doubtful " — they 
can  be  either  long  or  short  as  suits  the  poet. 

(6)  One  of  the  consonants  may  end  its  word  and 
the  other  begin  the  next.  Such  syllables  are  all  long. 
Thus,  TyKTos  /x,oXvy8So9,  avSpes  cro<f)OL,  although  both 
these  long  syllables  are  "short  by  nature"  (see  below). 

(c)  Both  consonants  may  occur  at  the  beginning  of 
the  second  word  If  the  vowel  is  naturally  short,  the 
syllable  is  almost  always  short,  though  such  scansions 
as  ere  KTCVO)  are  occasionally  found.  But  if  the  second 
word  begins  with  a  double  consonant  or  cr  followed  by 
another  consonant,  the  syllable  is  always  long.  Thus 

6   ^6^09,  Tt  £777619,  ravra  (TKOTTOVfiev. 

A  vowel,  naturally  short,  when  thus  lengthened  is 
said  to  be  "  lengthened  by  position  ". 

The  following  types  of  syllable  are  always  short : — 

(i)  Those  containing  a  naturally  short  vowel  (e  or  o) 
not  lengthened  by  position,  e.g.  tKotv,  0X09. 

(ii)  Final  a  of  the  third  declension  neuter  singular 
(crcujud),  third  declension  accusative  singular  (eXTriSa, 
Spacrai/ra),  and  all  neuters  plural  (ra,  o-cuyxara,  rotavra). 

(iii)  Final  t  (e-g-  earn,  n),  save,  of  course,  when  it  is 
part  of  a  diphthong. 

(iv)  The  accusative  -0,9  of  the  third  declension 
(ai/S/>o,9,  TrovovvTas).  But  /u,ovo~a9  (first  declension). 
The  quantity  in  both  cases  is  that  of  the  corresponding 
nominative. 

Hiatus  is  practically  unknown.  That  is,  a  word 
ending  in  a  vowel  is  not  to  be  followed  by  a  word 
beginning  with  a  vowel,  unless  one  vowel  or  the  other 
disappears.  Almost  always  it  is  the  first  vowel  which 
is  thus  cut  off,  the  process  being  called  "elision".  In 
verse  one  would  not  write  TTOVTO,  etTre,  but  TTO.VT  etTre; 
not  ert  etfai,  but  er'  ew>cu.  When  the  first  vowel  is  long 
and  the  second  short,  the  latter  is  cut  of  by  "  prodelision, " 
a  much  rarer  occurrence.  Thus  TOVTO>  dvetTre  would 
become  rovrat  VetTre.  Two  long  vowels,  as  in  KaXr) 
,  are  not  used  together  at  all.  But  the  rule  as  to 


830  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

hiatus  does  not  normally  apply  at  the  end  of  a  verse  ; 
usually  one  can  end  a  verse  with  an  unelided  vowel  and 
begin  the  next  with  a  vowel.  If  in  any  metrical  scheme 
this  liberty  is  not  allowed,  it  is  said  that  "synapheia1 
prevails  ". 

We  are  now  in  a  position  to  discuss  the  various 
metres  to  be  found  in  Greek  Tragedy. 

§  II.    THE  IAMBIC  METRE 

Practically  all  the  dialogue  and  speeches  are  written 
in  this  metre.  The  student  would  do  well  to  grow 
thoroughly  accustomed  to  reading  these  aloud  with 
correct  quantities  before  he  attempts  the  others. 

The  iambic  line  consists  of  six  feet,  any  one  of  which 
may  be  an  iambus.  But  a  "pure"  iambic  line,  one  in 
which  every  foot  is  an  iambus,  as  in  Andromache,  v.  241 
(see  above),  is  very  rare.  A  speech  written  solely  in 
such  feet  would  be  highly  monotonous  and  far  too  rapid. 
Other  feet  are  therefore  allowed,  under  restrictions,  to 
take  the  place  of  the  iambus. 

By  far  the  commonest  of  these  is  the  spondee,  which 
consists  of  two  long  syllables  (Xoyx1?*  iravratv).  This 
can  occur  in  the  first,  third,  or  fifth  places  —  one,  two,  or 
all  three.  Thus  :  — 

-    —         \j—       \j-\j        -  —       —     \s  — 

Si/cm  |  /3ia  |  <papayy\t  irpos  \  8v<rx€ip.\(ptp  (Prom.  Vinctus,  15). 

—     \j     —       —        —       \j   —      \j  —        \j  — 
o  T(Kv\a  Kafytjov  rov  |  rraAat  |  vta  |  rptxpr)  ((Ed.  Tyr.,  l). 

Next,  the  lightness  and  variety  is  often  greatly 
increased  by  the  use  of  "  resolved  "  2  (or  broken-up)  feet. 
Each  long  syllable  being  regarded  as  equal  to  two 
"shorts,"  it  follows  that  the  iambus  can  be  "resolved" 
into  '-"-•«-',  the  spondee  into  -w,  w-  (and  ^^^^(  but  this 
last  is  not  employed  in  iambics). 


connexion,"  "  continuity  ". 
3  These  cause  almost  all  the  difficulty  of  scanning  iambics.     Till  one 
is  quite  familiar  with  them  it  is  a  good  plan  to  begin  at  the  end.     Nearly 
all  resolved  feet  occur  in  the  third  or  fourth  place. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY  381 

Of  these  three  the  tribrach  («»•»«)  is  much  the  most 
frequent.  As  it  corresponds  to  the  iambus,  it  can  occur 
in  any  place,  save  the  sixth  ;  it  is  exceedingly  rare  in 
the  fifth  place  :  — 

—   —  \j  \j\^  —    —  \j    —  —    —     \_»  — 

(pai8pa>ir\ov  f8tS|ov  Tot(r\iv  A.iy\KT0ov  |  (piXois  (Orestes,  894). 

og  (Bacchce,  12). 


The  dactyl  (~'-'w)  is  allowed  in  those  places  to  which 
the  spondee  is  admitted,   save   the   fifth  (just  as  the 
tribrach  is  excluded  from  the  sixth).     Thus  :  — 
—  o     —    —    \j  \j\j     —  —    —    \j  — 

ov  (paa\t  irpa>T\ov  Aai/a|oi>   Ary|v7rra>  |  8tnas  (Orestes,  872). 

l*f    —          U  —          ~      \J  VO         \j  —  --          \j     — 

\oyovs  |  «Xi(r<7|a>i>  ort  |  /cantor  |  aiij  \  vopovs  (Ibid.,  892). 

It  is  rare  in  the  first  foot. 

Least  common  of  all  is  the  anapaest  (*•"-'"),  which 
appears  only  in  the  first  foot,  unless  it  is  contained 
entirely  in  a  proper  name,  when  it  can  occur  in  any 
place  save  the  sixth.  This  license  is  due  to  necessity  : 
such  a  name  as  'Aim-yd^r?  could  not  otherwise  be  intro- 
duced into  iambics  at  all.  Examples  :  — 

\  \  —  \J—  \J  —         «M>      ~  ~—  \J        ~ 

8pvos  I  re  fju\\anos  T\avdf<r(p\opov  (Bacch(S, 


8e<riroiv\a  yap  \  nor  om\ov  EpfjL\iovr)v  \  Xeyo)  (Androni.>  804). 

Occasionally  a  line  is  to  be  found  with  two  or  even 
three  resolved  feet  :  — 


Xovrpotcrjtv  aXo^|ou  irepi\nf(ra>v  \  jraj/v(rr|aToif  (Orestes, 

—  \j\->     <*>      ~        —       \j  u  i~t    —     \j    —       \s  - 
f*T)T(pa  |  TO  (ra>(pp\ov  T  (\aj3\fv  avr\i  <Tvp.<j)\opas  (Ibid.,  5°2)- 

\J  \-f   ~  \J      ^  >   \J      —        <_<    v_>     i^  ;          —  «_/         —  SM»~ 

ava8f\<j)\os  an-aTJwp  a<f>i\\os  ti  \  8e  aoi  |  8oK(i  (Ibid.,  310). 

Two  licenses  should  be  noted.  The  last  syllable  of 
the  line  may  be  short  ;  no  doubt  the  pause  :  at  the  end 

1  Sophocles  sometimes  neglects  this  pause.  Not  only  does  he  oc- 
casionally end  a  line  with  a  word  (such  as  the  definite  article)  which 
belongs  closely  to  the  first  word  of  the  next  line  ;  in  a  few  places  he  elides 
a  vowel  at  the  end  before  a  vowel  in  the  following  line.  See,  for  instance, 
(Ed.  Tyr.,  29. 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 

was  felt  to  help  it  out.  Lines  of  this  kind  are  innumer- 
able, e.g.  :  — 

\j\j 

Kparos  Bta  rt  <r<p<pv  p.tv  fvroXr)  \  Aior  (Prom.  Vinctus.,  12) 

(which  is  followed  by  a  vowel  —  exei).  It  matters  little 
whether  such  syllables  are  marked  as  short,  as  long,  or 
with  the  sign  of  doubtful  quantity  (°~).  Next,  synizesis 
(cruv'itflcrt.s,  "  collapse  ")  occurs  now  and  then  —  two 
syllables  coalesce  and  are  scanned  as  one,  e.g.  ^-q  ou, 

7TO\€(t)<S  I  — 


a\\  ta  |  fjLf  KOI  1  TIJV  e£  |  ep.ov  \  bva-^ov\\iai>  (Antigone,  95). 

—        ^-^—    \J     —      —         \J  \s  \~>     ~        \~>    —       w     — 

o>S  p.r]  fi&\od  TJT\IS  p,   (T(K\ev   «£  |  orov  T\«(f>vv   (Ion,  313). 

—      —    \j  —         —       —      \j     —       \j  ~    i*/    \s 
<r(f>a(  at/i|arov  |  dtas  &a>p\ov  17  |  p.fT(i<r\i  <rt  (Andromache,  260). 

(Synizesis  is  specially  common  in  the  various  cases  of 
$eos  and  Bed.) 

Finally,  two  important  rules  of  rhythm  remain  to  be 
stated. 

First,  there  must  be  a  "  caesura  "'  in  either  the  third 
or  the  fourth  foot.  A  caesura  is  a  gap  between  words 
in  the  middle  of  a  foot.  Either  the  third  foot,  then, 
or  the  fourth  must  consist  partly  of  one  word,  partly  of 
another.  It  is  indicated  in  scansion  by  the  sign  ||. 
Many  verses  have  this  necessary  caesura  in  the  third 
foot  only,  e.g.  :— 


a-navB  |  o  fump\os  \\  Kav\apidfji\T)Tos  \  xpovos  (Ajax,  646). 

Many  show  it  in  the  fourth  only  :  — 

-     —  \j  -      <_»-w      —     —  —     \_»<^> 

irpos  TT)<rto\f  njs  \  yvvanc.\os  \\  oirr|«tpo>  |  8(   viv   (Ibid.,  652). 

A  still  larger  number  have  caesura  in  both  places  :  — 


(Tti\as  \\  pr)K\os  ||  r)v  |  KoiyM>fi.\fvos  (Agamemnon,  2). 

This  usage  is  essential  to  rhythm.     It  is  of  course  pos- 
sible for  every  foot  in  the  line  to  exhibit  a  caesura,  but 

1  Latin,  caesura  "  a  cutting". 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY  833 

one  in  the  midst  is  necessary  to  prevent  the  line  from 
falling  into  pieces.  That  coextension  of  word  and  foot 
which  is  naturally  frequent  must  at  one  point  be  em- 
phatically excluded,  so  that  the  whole  line  may  be  felt 
as  a  single  rhythmical  whole.  Such  "lines"  as 

—    —      \j    -          \J     ~      \S    ~          ~    ~         V^<^> 

ravrriv  avat-  Xtyet   K.a\r}v   ttvai  iro\ivt 

or 


O8lKT(Tf(Uf    SouAoi    /JM^OVfJifVOl 

are  utterly  impossible.1  The  first  falls  into  six  scraps, 
and  the  second  into  two  mere  lumps,  of  equal  length.  If 
a  breach  of  the  rule  ever  occurs,  it  is  for  a  special  reason. 
When  Sophocles  (CEd.  Tyr.,  738)  writes 

&  Zfv,  ri  p.ov  8pa<Tcu  /Se^ovAeutrai  irtpi  ; 

the  dragging  rhythm  well  represents  the  dawning  dread 
of  CEdipus.  But  the  main  caesura  may  be  dispensed 
with  if  the  third  foot  ends  with  an  elision,  apparently 
because,  if  the  word  could  be  written  in  full,  the  fourth 
foot  would  be  divided  between  two  words.  Thus  :  — 

Xcup'  •   ov  yap  e^daipca  (r*  •   aTrwAeerar  8'  f'/ie  (Alcestis,  179)- 
ZTJTOIHTI  TOV  TtKOVT  •  e'-yw  8e  8ia<ptpca  (Heracles,  76). 

The  other  rule  is  that  generally  called  "the  rule  of 
the  Final  Cretic".2  It  is  most  simply  stated  thus:  if 
there  is  a  caesura  in  the  fifth  foot,  that  foot  must  be  an 

iambus,  e.g.  :  — 

«-»     -  \j  - 

ov\  fKa>v  \  yap  \\  ayy\e\<a  (Troades,  71°)- 


TOV  rovdf  venpov  OVK  adairT\ov  \\  av  \  \inois  (Ibid., 

1  No  such  lines  are  extant  in  Greek,  but  an  analogy  can  be  found  in 
Ennius'  hexameter  : 

Sparsis  hastis  longis  campus  splendet  et  horret. 

In  the  Peruigilium  Veneris,  the  trochee  is  much  too  often  contained  in  a 
single  word,  e.g.  : 

Hybla  totos  funde  flores,  quotquot  annus  adtulit. 

2  It  is  so  called  because  the  second  half  of  the  fifth  foot  plus  the  sixth 
will  obviously  have  the  metrical  form  -  ^  -,  which  sequence  of  syllables, 
when  it  forms  a  single  foot  (as,  of  course,  it  does  not  in  iambics),  is  called 
a  cretic.     The  rule  is  therefore  often  thus  stated  :  "  When  the  final  cretic 
extends  over  a  whole  word  or  whole  words,  it  must  be  preceded  by  a  short 
syllable". 


334 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


This  rule  does  not  exclude  from  the  first  half  of  the  foot 
long  monosyllables  which  are  in  meaning  and  syntax 
closely  connected  with  the  "  cretic  "  word  or  words. 
Thus  ra>v  (TojfjidTajv  is  a  quite  correct  ending,  but  not 


TOVTOiV 


Subjoined  is  a  scheme  of  the  iambic  verse  as  written 
by  the  tragedians.  The  writers  of  comedy  allowed 
themselves  licenses  with  which  we  are  not  here  con- 
cerned. Euripides  is  much  fonder  of  resolved  feet  than 
yEschylus  or  Sophocles. 


I 

2 

t 

4 

5 

6 

«->  - 

«_»  - 

^ 

_ 

1       — 

«-»  - 

^  _ 

-J^_ 

P3 

[wv 

,_  — 

U-3 

S 

§  III.   THE  TROCHAIC  TETRAMETER 

Under  this  head  we  shall  deal  only  with  trochees  as 
used  in  dialogue.  Originally  all  dialogue  was  written 
in  this  metre,1  and  they  sometimes  appear  in  extant 
plays  when  the  situation  is  too  hurried  or  excited  for 
iambics  though  not  agitated  enough  for  lyrical  dia- 
logue. These  passages  are  not  usually  long,  and  it 
is  interesting  to  note  that  the  longest  are  found  in 
the  two  most  melodramatic  plays,  Orestes  and  Iphi- 
geneia  at  Aulis?  The  metre  is  always  the  trochaic 
tetrameter  catalectic 3  (sometimes  called  the  trochaic 

1  Iambics  were  adopted  because  nearer  to  the  rhythm  of  everyday 
speech.      It  has  been  held,  for  instance  by  Dr.  J.  H.  H.  Schmidt,  that 
iambics  are  nothing  but  trochaics  with  "  anacrusis "  (for  this  term  see 
below,  p.  342).     So  near  is  the  iambic  metre  to  ordinary  talk  that  one  now 
and  again  finds  accidental  "  lines  "  in  prose.     Thus  Demosthenes  (Olynth.^ 
I,  5)  writes  8rj\ov  yap  ta~rt  rots  'O\vvdiois  ori.  .  .   .  George  Eliot,  early  in 
Middlemarch,  actually  produces  two  consecutive  "  lines " :  "  Obliged  to 
get  my  coals  by  stratagem,  and  pray  to  heaven  for  my  salad-oil". 

2  Euripides  is  much  fonder  of  this  metre  than  the  other  two  masters. 
Sophocles  in  particular  is  very  sparing  of  it.     That  passage  (Phzloctetes, 
1222  sqq.),  where  Odysseus  and  Neoptolemus  hurry  upon  the  scene  in 
violent  (iambic)  altercation,  would  infallibly  have  been  put  into  trochaics 
by  Euripides. 

3  From  (caroAT/yw,  "  to  stop  short  ". 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     335 

octonarius),  that  is,  a  line  consisting  of  eight  feet,  mostly 
trochees,  with  "  catalexis  ".  Catalexis  occurs  when  the 
last  foot  of  a  line  has  not  its  full  number  of  syllables, 
the  remainder  being  filled  by  a  pause  in  delivery. 

Pure  trochaic  verses  are  occasionally  to  be  found  :  — 


nara     ira>s  a(fiKOfj,f(ra       fvpo     ravr 
I  2345  6  78 


The  mark  *  means  that  there  is  a  pause  equivalent  in 
length  to  a  short  syllable.  It  is  often  found  in  the 
scansion  of  lyrics,  and  there  one  also  at  times  uses 
^  IK-  y  ,  which  mean  pauses  equivalent  to  two,  three,  and 
four  short  syllables  respectively.  As  in  iambics,  the 
last  syllable  may  be  short  by  nature  :  — 


(Ta>(ppov\eii>   y  (ir\fpfyt  |  dfvpo   «r  |  r)  Ai|oy  8a/i|apA    (fferdclfS^  857)- 

This  metre  is  plainly  analogous  to  Tennyson's 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall. 

But  such  purely  trochaic  lines  are  rare.      Other  feet 
are  usually  admitted,  especially  the  spondee  : — 

j3Xet|fOv  I  fts  TjfJi\as  iv  \  ap^as  \  T<av  Xoy|a>v  Tairr|as  Xa/3|a>A   (Iph.  Atf/.t  320)- 

Spondees  may  occur  only  in  the  second,  fourth,  or  sixth 
foot. 

The  tribrach  also  is  often  employed  by  Euripides  : — 

ap.(p  rjfj.\o)i>   7roX|iTar  |  cm  <pov\u>  6«r6\(u  XPf\<OVA   (Orestes, 


•  8  r/fj.\eis  f(T\ofj.fda  |  raXXa  8  |  ov  \ty\ov<r  op.\a>sA  (Jph.  Taur.t  1232). 

The  fifth  foot  is  the  favourite  place  for  the  tribrach, 
and  next  to  that  the  first : — 


aXX  o/i|a>s  raxlicrra  |  KCIKOS  f<^|jupa^|?7  0iX|oirA   (Orestes,  740). 

Euripides,  late  in  his  career,  introduced  a  good  deal 
of  license,  here  as  elsewhere.  Firstly,  tribrachs  become 
far  more  frequent  and  occur  in  unusual  places  : — 

\* •  v^>  <_>  ~      w»       ~  **>         ~       ~          \j  \j   i*t        ~        ^->        \^>v^  v^o~ 

avocri\os  TTf<f>\vKas  |  aXX  ou  |  irarpidos  \  a>s  a~v  \  7ro\ffu\os^  (PhcentSSCS,  609). 


336  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

To  place  a  resolved  foot  practically  at  the  end  of  the 
line  is  bold  —  the  metre  is  shaken  almost  to  pieces. 
Here,  as  in  other  respects,  Euripides  points  forward  to 
the  conversational  manner  of  the  New  Comedy.  But 
he  goes  further,  and  allows  feet  hitherto  not  found  in 
trochaics  :  the  anapaest  and  the  dactyl.  The  latter, 
however,  is  extremely  rare1  and  employed  only  with 
proper  names  :— 
—  w  -  <-»—  \j  <*>  —  <*>  —  «j  -  —  ~  \j  — 

crvyyov\ov  r  tp\r]v  IIuXa8|?;v  re  |  rov  ra8|e  £vv8p\<i)VTa  \  /AOIA  (Orestes,  1535)- 


fis  ap  |  l(piyfv\fiav  \  EXfinjs  \  vo<rros  \  r)v  ir€irp\a>pfv\os^   (Iflh.  Alll.,  882). 

The  anapaest  is  commoner  (there  is  a  proper-name 
instance  in  the  line  just  quoted)  :— 

—         V^VJ\M»"~~V->  —        ~  \J\J\J~\J~\J~ 

a>r   vtv  I  iKeret»<r|<a  (if  \  (raxrai  \  TO  ye  SIKJCUOC  |  o>8  exlelA   (Orestes,  797)- 


adffj.iT\av  ffoi  I  p.T)Tpos  I  ovopaQfiv   K(ip\a^   (P/tO?n.,  6  1  2). 

There  is  no  rule  as  to  caesura.  The  end  of  the 
fourth  foot  regularly  coincides  with  the  end  of  a  word  ; 
such  an  arrangement  is  named  diaeresis.2  In  all  extant 
tragedy  only  one  certain  exception  to  this  rule  is  found  :— 


et  8o»c|et  (rr(ix\<>>p*v  \  <«>  yfvv\aiov  |  (ipr)K\a>s  e7r|orA   (Philoctetes,  1402). 

Since  diaeresis  is  practically  always  found  in  so  many 
hundreds  of  lines,  being  preserved  even  in  the  loosest 
writing  of  Euripides,  why  should  we  regard  the  re- 
cognized trochaic  verse  as  an  unity  ?  Why  not  write, 
e.g.  :— 

ov  yap  av  t-vp.f3aifji(v  oXAco; 
17  Vi  rols 


uparoiivra 
tf  AVOKT'  (ivai  \6ov6s  (Phoenisscc,  590  sq.\ 

If  the  line  falls  into  two  clearly  marked  halves,  why  not 
show  this  to  the  eye?  There  is  no  unanswerable 
objection  to  doing  so  —  the  passage  above  corresponds 
exactly  in  rhythmical  form  to  much  English  verse, 
e.g.  .— 

1  The  two  instances  given  are,  in  fact,  all  that  I  have  found. 
r,  "  division  ". 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY  837 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

The  practice  in  English  is  to  break  up  the  long  trochaic 
"line"  into  two  when  the  words  at  the  diaeresis  rhyme 
(as  in  the  above  passage  from  Longfellow),  but  not  to 
do  so  when  the  only  rhymes  occur  at  the  catalectic  foot. 
We  print  the  opening  of  another  poem  by  Longfellow 
thus : — 

In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry  old  and  brown  ; 
Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it  watches  o'er  the  town. 

In  Greek  there  is,  of  course,  no  rhyme-scheme  to  settle 
this,  but  the  regular  catalexis  is  felt  to  mark  off  separate 
units.  The  entire  question  depends  upon  personal 
fancy,1  though  the  instance  from  the  Phttoctetes  shows 
that  Sophocles  at  any  rate  regarded  the  whole  octonarius 
as  the  unit. 

Subjoined  is  the  scheme  : — 


I 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

7 

[~H] 

C-^v-0 

WWW 

WWW 

§  IV.    THE  ANAP^STIC  METRE 

Whereas  iambics  and  trochaics  were  declaimed  by 
the  actors,  anapaests  were  used  mostly  by  the  chorus, 
and  were  chanted  in  recitative.  They  are  found  when 
the  chorus  move  into  the  orchestra,  or  salute  the  entrance 
of  a  new  character.  Most  tragedies  end  with  a  brief 
anapaestic  system,  executed  by  the  singers  as  they 
depart. 

The  most  usual  line  is  a  tetrapody  —  that  is,  a  verse 
of  four  feet  :  — 


-- 

TI  (ru  irpos  I  p.f\a0pois  |  rt  <rv  rr)8\f 


(Alcestis,  29). 


1  For  example,  the  splendid  poem  by  Anacreon  beginning  Trw 
is  printed  by  some  in  long  lines,  by  others  in  short,  even  though  the  first, 
third,  etc.,  long  lines  are  not  catalectic. 


22 


338  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

But   lines  consisting  of  anapaests  alone  are  very  un- 
common.    The  spondee  is  often  found  :— 


OVK  Tjpic\t(Te  <roi  |  p.opov  A8p.\r)Tov  (Alcestis,  32). 

Dactyls  also  are  frequent  :  — 


(r(pr)\ai>T\i  T(^VT)  I  vvv  8  cm  \  1778  au  (Ibid.,  34). 

No  other  foot  is  admitted,  but  each  of  these  three  may 
occur  at  any  place  in  the  line. 

Besides  the  tetrapody,  we  find  now  and  then  a 
dipody,  or  verse  of  two  feet. 

Anapaestic  systems  are  invariably  closed  by  a  cata- 
lectic  verse  :  — 


avrr)  |  irpo6aveiv  |  IlfXiou  |  irais^  (Ibid.t  37). 

In  systems  of  considerable  length  such  lines  occur  at 
intervals.     They  are  called  "  paroemiacs  V 

§  V.    LYRICS 

The  metres  of  Greek  songs  form  a  difficult  and 
complicated  study.  So  long  as  we  do  not  know  the 
music  composed  for  them,  the  scansion  of  lyrics  must 
remain  a  more  difficult  and  doubtful  question  than  that 
of  the  iambics,  episodic  trochaics,  and  anapaests. 

The  best  preparation  for  their  study  is  the  habit  of 
reading  iambics  and  trochaics  with  correct  quantities 
and  natural  emphasis.  Let  us,  so  prepared,  address 
ourselves  to  the  following  passage  2  from  the  Agamemnon 

(975  W):— 

TtTTTt   /XOl  Totf    tp.1T(&OV 

bfifjia  irpofrrarfipiov 


irorarai  ; 
oToy  ap,icr6ov  u 
ov8*  diroirrvcrai  Siicav 


ovetparwv 

6dp(ros  fiircidfs  iffi  (ppevos  <p[\ov  dpovov  ; 
Xpovos  8(  rot  irpvp.vijo'ioiv  £vvfp.fto\ais 

•drap-fuas  f£  d(cray  jStftijufv,  (vd*  vir*  'iXiov 
&pro  vavftdras  crrparos. 

1  The  meaning  of  this  term  is  uncertain. 

*  I  have,  here  and  later,  printed  the  readings  and  arrangement  best 
suited  to  my  purpose. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     339 

It  soon  becomes  plain  that  the  passage  is,  at  any 
rate  in  the  main,  trochaic.  The  first  two  lines  scan 
easily,  ending  with  a  catalectic  foot.  We  note  that  the 
third  seems  to  drag  at  the  end  :  — 

—  \j  —    w  -  «-»    ~    <*>  ~  ~ 

K<tp8i\as  Tfp\a<TKOir\ov  7ror|aTai, 

for  we  remember  that  in  the  trochaic  octonarius  the  last 
complete  foot  is  never  a  spondee.  But  in  the  fourth 
line  we  are  quite  baffled  :  — 

—   w   «M»    ~          \j  w   — 
(MVTl1T\O\ft    8    |    aKf\(VCTT\OS    .     .     .  ? 

Anapaests  are  very  rare  in  trochaics,  iambi  unknown. 
That  the  iambus  should  never  replace  the  trochee  is 
quite  natural.  It  would  be  hideous  rhythm,  in  the  first 
line  of  Locksley  Hall,  instead  of  "  Comrades,  leave  me 
here  a  little  .  .  .  ,"  to  write  "  Dragoons,  leave  me  .  .  .  ". 
The  foot  oXct  cannot  be  right.  The  line  seems  hopeless  ; 
or  rather,  if  we  have  any  knowledge  of  Homeric  and 
Virgilian  metre,  we  recognize  something  like  the  dactylic 
hexameter  :  — 


a.p.\i<rdos  ajotda. 

But  is  such  a  passage  possible  in  a  trochaic  passage 
written  for  Greek  music  ?  It  is  known  that  in  Greek 
music  the  notes  corresponded  closely  to  the  syllables  ; 
music  composed  for  trochees  will  certainly  be  in  three- 
eighths  time,  for  dactyls  in  four-eighths  time.  All  these 
feet  should  have  three  beats,  not  four. 

The  next  two  lines  are  plainly  similar  to  the  first 
and  second.  In  the  seventh  line  we  first  wonder  why, 
though  we  are  in  the  midst  of  a  grammatical  sentence, 
the  words  should  begin  farther  to  the  right  than  is  usual, 
as  if  for  a  new  paragraph.  When  we  try  to  scan,  we 
find  once  more  the  iambus-difficulty  :  — 

-     v->         -      -     \J    - 

Bapvos  |  fvnnQ\fs  if  .   .   . 

If  we  work  backwards  from  the  end,  -05  <$>i\ov  6povov 
gives  the  familiar  trochaic  -octonarius  ending,  -  ^  |  -  ^  |  -  A. 


340  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

But  the  middle  of  the  line  has  fallen  to  pieces,  and  for 
the  present  we  leave  it. 

The  eighth  line  seems  at  first  more  familiar.  Is  it 
not  the  ordinary  iambic  senarius  of  §  1 1  ?  But  where  is 
the  caesura?  And  can  we  suddenly  insert  an  iambic 
line  into  a  trochaic  system  ?  Is  it  then  possible  after  all 
to  scan  it  asjjome  kind  of  trochaics  ?  Begin  at  the  end. 
.  .  .  €fiy8oXatsA  suits  excellently  ;  and  if  we  work  back- 
wards we  soon  find  that  the  whole  would  fall  readily 
into  trochaics  if  only  we  could  ignore  the  first  syllable  :— 


8(  I  TOI  irpofi.v\T)O"i\a>v  £u 

But  why  should  we  ignore  it  ?  And  why  does  the  line 
begin  farther  to  the  left  ? 

The  ninth  line  again  offers  perplexity  in  the  first 
half,  clearness  in  the  second  :— 

—  \s     —   \j     —  \j\j- 

T)K(v  |  (vQ  vtr  I  lAi|ovA  . 

Grown  by  this  time  bolder,  we  attack  the  first  half  in 
detail,  working  backwards,  as  fie  is  easy.  Then  e£ 
OKT  .  .  .  may  be  either  -^  or  --,  both  of  which  are 
admissible.  We  are  left  with  i/fa/A/uas.  Reading  the 
whole  line  over  slowly,  marking  the  trochees  carefully, 
we  find  'ourselves  somehow  dwelling  on  the  last  syllable 
of  i//a/x/Aia?.  Why  should  we?  If  that  syllable  were 
only  -  w,  all  would  be  well ;  but  it  is  not.  Finally,  the 
tenth  and  last  line  is  quite  easy  : — 

-  \j    —  u  —      u  u~ 

<apro  |  vavfiaT\as  OT/>ar|orA. 

The  whole  passage  then  is  trochaic ;  but  we  have 
met  four  difficulties  :  (i)  the  necessity  to  dwell  upon 
certain  syllables,  (ii)  the  irrational  presence  of  dactyls, 
(iii)  the  temptation  to  ignore  the  first  syllable  of  xpoVos, 
(iv)  the  insetting  of  Odpcros.  Understanding  of  these  four 
facts  will  carry  us  a  long  way.  We  take  them  in  order. 

Our  first  point  indicates  that  we  must  revise  that 
division  of  all  syllables  into  "longs"  of  equal  value  and 
"  shorts "  of  equal  value  (each  "  long  "  being  exactly 
equivalent  to  two  "  shorts  ")  which  obtains  in  iambics. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     341 

The  lyric  metres  recognize  syllables  of  greater  length 
than  w  ^.  Most  frequent  is  the  length  L,  equal  to  ^  ^  v^. 
A  syllable  of  this  length  is  therefore  admitted  in  lyric 
trochaic  systems  as  a  whole  foot,  and  investigations,  such 
as  we  have  practised  above,  will  generally  show  where 
such  a  foot  is  to  be  postulated.  We  can  now  scan 
certain  portions  which  we  found  troublesome : — 


-     \J         I-          -  w      L 
Gapcros  |  evir  \  tiQts  \  t£ 


Moreover,  as  we  were  suspicious  of  the  final  spondee 
(replacing  the  expected  trochee)  in  the  third  line,  we 
obtain  at  any  rate  a  quasi-trochee  by  scanning  thus  :  — 

—    \j-\j-\j-       \_/    L     — 
<ap8i\as  T€p|a<rKo»r|oi;  7ror|aT|aiA.  . 

This  prolongation  of  a  syllable  is  called  TOVTJ  ("stretch- 
ing"). Such  a  syllable  may  fill  a  foot,  as  in  trochaics, 
and  this  rhythm  is  said  to  be  syncopated.1 

Next  comes  the  dactylic  fourth  line,  which  introduces 
another  vital  rule.  Trochaic  systems  admit,  not  genuine 
dactyls,  but  "cyclic"  dactyls.  To  the  "long"  of  each 
foot  and  to  the  first  "short"  is  given  less  than  their 
usual  length  :  the  rhythm  is  accelerated,  so  that  -  ^  is 
equivalent  to  -,  and  the  whole  cyclic  dactyl,  marked  -^  w, 
is  equivalent  to  a  trochee.2  Whenever  we  see  a  number 
of  apparent  dactyls,  we  must  examine  the  whole  passage 
to  find  whether  it  is  trochaic  or  not.  Trochaic  systems 
which  contain  cyclic  dactyls  are  called  "  logaoedic  ".3 
The  present  line,  then,  being  trochaic,  we  feel  the  same 

1  Greek  o-tryKOTi-jj,  "  coalescence  ".     But  '-  need  not  fill  a  foot  :   for 
instance  in  a  true  dactylic  system  we  find  ((Ed.  Co/.,  1082)  :  — 

-  <_»»j  -       \j  \s    —         —         L    vy    U      <_»      —  — 
md(()i\as  vf<p(\\as  KVpar\aip.  av\wQ  ay\coi>u>i>. 

Analogously  to  L  as  a  trochee,  dactyls  admit   Ll   (=<-»«-»«_«  «-.)asa  foot. 

-  «jw       U         U          L^--         -^wU 
Qjja-fa  |  KOI  |  ras  |  St<rroX|ovf  aS/i^Ta?  a$|eX(£|arx  \(CEd.  C01.,  1055). 

2  Before  condemning  this  statement  as  a  mere  evasion,  the  student 
should  reflect  that  all  such<  poetry  is  written  for  music,  which  would  in 
performance  make  the  rhythm  "  come  right  ". 

Of,  "  mingled  of  prose  and  verse", 


342  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

doubt  of  the  final  spondee  (which  would  equal  ^^^v,, 
not  ww^,,  as  it  should)  which  we  felt  in  the  third  line, 
and  scan  the  whole  : — 

(j.avrt7ro\\(i  d  a.K(\\(voTos  ap\icrdos  a|oid|aA. 

Our  third  question  touched  the  first  syllable  of  xp°v°s 
in  the  sixth  line.  It  is,  as  a  fact,  to  be  regarded  as 
standing  outside  the  metrical  line — a  kind  of  prelude, 
called  "  anacrusis  ",l  It  is  plain  that  neglect  of  anacrusis 
will  often  throw  our  scansion  out  completely.  A  useful 
rule  can  be  given  :  in  almost 2  any  line,  whatever  comes 
before  the  first  long  syllable  forms  an  anacrusis.  The 
reason  is  that  the  first  syllable  of  a  foot  must  have  an 
"  ictus  "  (see  below)  or  stress-accent,  and  the  foot-ictus 
normally  falls  on  long  syllables.  It  becomes  natural  then* 
to  pronounce  the  first  short  or  shorts  (if  any)  quickly, 
and  to  give  the  first  long  the  ictus  ;  in  this  way  the  short 
is  felt  as  a  mere  preliminary  to  the  line.  The  anacrusis, 
however,  can  be  of  three  forms,  ^,  •-"-',  ~.  Its  length 
must  be  that  of  the  second  part  of  the  characteristic  foot, 
«  for  trochees,  ~  or  ^^  for  dactyls,  and  so  forth.  It  is 
marked  off  from  the  first  foot  by  the  sign  •  . 

The  fourth  point  was  the  insetting  of  Odpo-os. 
It  happens  in  the  middle  of  a  grammatical  sentence, 
so  that  there  can  be  no  question  of  an  ordinary  para- 
graph. But  if  it  does  not  point  to  a  break  in  sense, 
its  only  reference  can  be  rhythmical.  The  whole  passage 
must  fall  into  two  distinct  rhythmical  paragraphs.  Let 
us  scan  them  separately  and  endeavour  to  find  a  reason 
for  this  break.  Take  the  first,  scanning,  marking,  and 
numbering  the  feet : — 

TiTTTt  |  /lot  ToS  |  «/i»reS|oJ'A|| 

I  2  34 

8ei/ia  |  7rpo<Trar|);pt|o»'A|| 
I  234 

1  avaKprnxris,  "striking  up". 

3  Not  all,  for  the  first  short  syllable  may  be  part  of  a  resolved  foot. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     343 


«- 

Kap8i\as  Tfp\a(TKOir\ov  jror|ar|atA 
I  2  3  456 


ap.\icr6os  a|oi8|aj 
3  456 


1         2          3      4 
-      \j  —    \j   —  u  — 

t>v<TKpiT\a>v  ov\fipar\o>v  A|| 
I234 

If  we  examine  this  to  find  structural  unity,  it  soon 
appears.  The  first  pair  of  lines  answers  to  the  last,  and 
line  three  to  line  four,  in  the  number  of  their  feet  14  +  4, 
6,  6,  4  +  4.  The  correspondence  is  indicated  thus  :  — 

4 


Each  of  these  masses,  it  will  be  noticed,  is  marked  off 
by  the  sign  ||.  Such  a  mass  is  named  a  "sentence"  or 
"  colon  "  (KO)\OV,  "limb  "),  and  such  a  balanced  structure 
of  cola  is  named  a  "period"  (ireptoSos,  "circuit").  It 
happens  that  in  the  passage  just  examined  the  "  sentence  " 
division  always  occurs  at  the  end  of  a  word,  but  this 
is  not  invariably  so.  We  proceed  now  with  the  second 
paragraph1  —  the  second  period  as  we  shall  now  call  it. 

—     \^         L.       —  v>      l_      —        w»~       \>j    ~         w~ 
Saptros  |  (Vir\fi6(s  |  t£||ei  <f>ptv\os  <pt\\ov 
12341  2 


os  8e  |  rot  7rpu^ii'|7;(rt|f<j)/  gvv  )  e/ii/3oX|atfA|| 
I  23456 

-v^L         —      u     —        v^-v-r  ~v^        —  \J~ 

•*lfap.fu\as  |  ti-  a<r\as  ftfft\\r)Kfv  |  tvd  vn  |  !Xt|ovA|| 
123  4          I  234 

~    «->        —   \j   -  \j  — 

atpro  |  vav@aT\as  <rrpar|osj| 
12  34 

1  The  first  syllable  of  irpvuvrjo-iuv  in  the  second  line,  though  long,  is 
musically  equivalent  to  a  short.     Such  syllables  are  marked  with  the  sign  >, 

and  the  foot  rot  7rpvp.v-  may  be  called  an  "accelerated  spondee".  Sylla- 
bles which  carry  a  musical  length  different  from  their  metrical  length  are 
named  "irrational", 


34-4  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

That  is :  4  +  4,  6,  4  +  4,  4.  This  would  be  an  obviously 
well-balanced  structure  but  for  the  last  colon,  to  which 
nothing  corresponds.  Such  an  extra  sentence  is  called 
a  "  postlude  "  (eVo>8iKoi>).  Non-corresponding  sentences 
like  this  are  far  from  rare.1  They  may  occur  at  the 
beginning  of  the  period  ("prelude,"  Trpoco&LKov),  in  the 
middle  ("mesode,"  /u,ecra>Si/cdz>),  or  at  the  end.  This 
very  period  supplies  an  example  of  a  mesode  as  well  as 
of  a  postlude.  The  scheme  is  : — 


The  whole  passage,  then,  consists  of  two  periods 
connected  by  meaning  and  grammar,  but  —  for  us  —  by 
no  more  intimate  musical  bond  than  the  common  use 
of  trochees.  But  the  dance  and  music  which  accom- 
panied the  whole  would  clearly  demonstrate  its  unity. 
The  end  of  a  period  is  indicated  by  ]]. 

It  is  necessary  now  to  consider  briefly  the  passage 
which  immediately  follows  (vv.  988  sgq.)  :— 


jr   o/iuara>p 
VOOTOV,  avTOfiaprvs  aiv  • 


\vpas  op.a>s  v^ 

'Epivvos  avro8i8a.KTOS  (<ru>6tv 
oi  TO  irav  f^o>v 
f\7ri8os  <pi\ov  8pa<ros.  • 

'  OVTOI  /iaraf«t  irpos  (v8iKois  <f>pf<riv 
ir  8ivais  KVK\OV^KVOV  K.tap. 
8  (£  €fjias  rot  J  (\iri8os  ^vdrj  irevtiv 
is  TO  fir)  Tf\«r(p6pov. 

This  is  an  exact  counterpart  in  syllables,  feet,  cola, 
and  periods,  of  the  first  passage.  The  first  is  called 
the  "strophe"  (0-7/30^17,  "turn"),  the  second  the  "anti- 
strophe  "  (avrLcrTpo^,  "  counter-turn  ").  The  chorus, 

I  The  existence  of  these  cola  forms  (to  us  who  have  not  the  music 
written  for  Greek  lyrics)  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles  to  a  clear  and  easy 
perception  of  periodic  structure. 

II  In  lyrics  a  long  syllable  (if  it  does  not  end  with  a  consonant)  may  be 
shortened  —  instead  of  disappearing  by  elision  —  before  a  vowel. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     345 

while  singing  the  one,  performed  various  evolutions 
about  the  orchestra,  and  these  were  repeated  exactly, 
but  in  reversed  order,  while  they  sang  the  antistrophe. 
All  these  lyrics  are  so  constructed  ;  the  normal  tragic 
"chorus"  consists  of  one  or  more  such  pairs,  though 
occasionally  the  antistrophe  is  followed  by  a  passage 
called  an  "epode".1  The  epodes  correspond  to  each 
other,  not  to  the  strophes.  This  equivalence  of  strophe 
and  antistrophe  is  often  of  value  in  determining  the 
quantities  or  the  text  in  one  of  them. 

We  have  now  gained  some  insight  into  the  nature 
of  a  Greek  choric  song.  But  before  proceeding  further 
it  will  be  well  to  deepen  our  impression  by  taking  from 
the  Agamemnon  (vv.  1  60  sqq.  )  another,  and  a  simpler, 
pair  of  strophes  :  — 

Zfvs,  ocrns  iror'  eortV,  tl  TO§'  avrw  (p!\ov 
TOVTO  viv  Trpocrevvfiru). 

^a)  irpoo-€iKao~ai}  iravr 
AIOJ,  (I  TO  fjidrav  airb  <ppovri8os 


ovS"  ocrris  irdpoidtv  rfv  jjieyas,  Tra/i^a^a)  dpacrti  f$pva>v, 

ov8e  Xe^rrat  irplv  &v  • 

os  8'  (TTfir'  e(pv  rpiaKTTJpos  oT^rrat 

Zfjva  8f  TIS  rrpo(pp6va>s  ei 

Tfv£(rai  (pp(v<av  TO  irav. 


1  ^  eVft)8dj.  The  masculine  word,  6  eVwddr,  has  a  different  meaning, 
with  which'  we  are  familiar  from  the  Efiodes  of  Horace — a  poem  which 
repeats  from  beginning  to  end  the  same  period,  each  period  being  usually 
two  cola  "which  either  have  equal  length,  or  the  second  of  which  is 
catalectic  or  'falling'  or  is  even  shortened  by  an  entire  measure"  (see 
Schmidt's  Introduction,  Eng.  tr.  by  Prof.  J.  W.  White,  pp.  93  sqq.'). 


346  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

The  chief  interest  of  this  subject  is  the  art  wherewith 
the  Greek  masters  accompanied  variations  of  emotion 
and  the  like  with  variations  of  rhythm.  This  passage 
affords  a  simple  and  stately  example.  The  heavy  open- 
ing (LL)  is  followed  by  the  more  confident  trochees  till, 
at,the  last  line  but  one,  religious  rapture  (in  the  strophe) 
and  the  ardour  of  triumph  (in  the  antistrophe)  burst 
forth  with  the  leaping  cyclic  dactyls. 

We  have  now  become  acquainted  with  three  rhyth- 
mical masses  :  the  colon,  the  period,  the  strophe.  Are 
there  others?  What  is  a  "verse"  in  lyrics?  There 
is  no  such  thing.1  One  must,  of  course,  distinguish 
between  a  "line"  and  a  "verse".  Lines  there  must 
be  —  that  is  an  affair  of  the  scribe  and  the  printer  ;  verses 
are  rhythmical  units,  and  there  is  no  rhythmical  mass  in 
Greek  lyrics  between  the  colon  and  the  period.  How 
then  are  we  to  arrange  our  periods,  there  being  no  verse- 
division  ?  The  most  obvious  way  is  to  write  each  colon 
as  a  separate  line.  The  difficulty  is  that  we  shall  often 
be  compelled  to  break  words  :  — 

Gapo-os  tvireiOes  t(- 

(i  (pptvos  <pi\ov  dpovov  .   .    . 


Another  method  is  to  let  each  line  run  on  until  we  reach 
a  colon-ending  which  coincides  with  a  word-  ending. 
Here  is  no  new  rhythmical  rule  :  it  is  purely  a  question 
of  convenience  for  the  eye.  Next,  shall  we  ever  write 
lines  of  (say)  two  cola  the  first  of  which  does  close  with 
a  word-ending  ?  It  is  natural  so  to  do  when  to  the  two 
cola  in  question  there  correspond  (whether  periodically 
or  strophically)  two  cola  which  must  on  this  system  fill 
one  line  only.  For  instance,  in  /Esch.,  Supplices,  656, 
we  shall  write  — 

—\j    w  -  «-»'—         -\j    \j  —     <_»  i-       —\j  \j  -  «j  -  \j- 

KO.I  yap  viro(TKia>v  ||  vvv  oTO/xartoi/  iroracr6\\(i> 


1  Though  my  obligations  to  Dr.  ].  H.  H.  Schmidt's  volumes,  especi- 
ally Die  Eurhythmie  in  den  Chorgesiingen  der  Griechen,  are  very  great, 
I  cannot  see  in  his  verse-pause  —  according  to  him  (Eurhythmie,  p.  89)  the 
foundation  of  his  system  —  anything  but  a  delusion.  Dr.  Schmidt's  own 
appendices  show  a  good  minority  of  "  verses  "  which  end  with  no  pause. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     347 

though  the  first  colon   ends  at  the  end   of  vTroo-fdaip, 
because  the  corresponding  passage  of  the  antistrophe 

runs — 


~w     <^»   —      \j        L.         —\j  <M»   —      «»> 
KOI  yepapot, 


where  the  first  colon  ends  inside  a  word.  It  is  purely  a 
matter  of  taste  whether  we  give  a  line  to  each  colon, 
in  which  case  the  drawback  is  the  breaking  of  words, 
or  continue  our  line  till  breaking  of  words  is  excluded, 
the  trouble  about  which  method  is  the  reader's  difficulty 
in  seeing  where  some  of  the  cola  begin. 

We  must  now  consider  the  most  vital  and  difficult 
portion  of  our  subject.  How  are  we  to  determine  the 
cola  ?  The  colon  is  the  very  soul  of  the  rhythm.  The 
period  is  generally  too  long  for  the  ear  to  receive  it  as 
one  artistic  impression.  The  foot  is  too  short  ;  more- 
over, the  mere  foot  too  often  tends  to  play  one  false  : 
irrational  syllables  and  TOVTJ  are  against  us.  But  the 
colon  is  neither  too  long  nor  too  short.  The  colon-divi- 
sion serves  the  same  purpose  as  non-commissioned 
officers  in  a  regiment,  or  the  determination  of  water- 
sheds in  geography  —  it  gives  a  sense  both  of  grouping 
and  of  control. 

What  precisely  is  a  colon?  It  is  as  much  of  a 
strophe  as  can  be  uttered  without  making  a  new  start. 
It  is  the  embodiment  of  rhythm,  as  the  foot  is  the  em- 
bodiment of  metre.  In  other  words,  it  is  a  series  of 
feet  bound  into  a  rhythmical  unity  by  the  presence 
of  one  main  ictus.  Three  questions,  then,  arise,  (i) 
What  is  an  ictus?  (ii)  Which  is  the  main  ictus  of  a 
series?  (iii)  Can  we  with  certainty  determine  the 
beginning  and  end  of  a  colon  when  we  have  identified 
the  main  ictus? 

(i)  Ictus  is  stress-accent.  The  ictus  of  any  single 
word  is  usually  obvious.  In  the  word  "maritime"  it 
falls  upon  the  first  syllable,  in  "  dragoon  "  upon  the 
second,  in  "cultivation"  upon  the  third.  In  TTOLVTUV, 
Xucra/AeVoi?,  and  /caraTratrro?,  it  falls  upon  the  first, 
second,  and  third  respectively.  Greek  metre  is  based 


348  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

upon  quantity,  but  Greek  rhythm  (like  all  other  rhythm) 
is  based  upon  ictus.  A  strophe  can,  and  must,  be  scanned 
foot  by  foot  on  quantity  alone ;  but  when  we  go  beyond 
the  foot-division  to  exhibit  the  structure  of  the  whole, 
we  must  refer  to  ictus  and  nothing  but  ictus — for  struc- 
ture is  an  affair  of  cola,  and  the  colon  is  created  by  the 
main  ictus. 

(ii)  Among  the  many  word-ictuses  of  a  considerable 
passage,  a  few  will  be  found  which  are  heavier  than  the 
rest.  These  are  simply  the  ictuses  of  the  most  impor- 
tant words.  Each  of  these  prominent  ictuses  gathers 
the  neighbouring  minor  ictuses  into  a  group  round  itself. 
We  should  begin  then  by  fixing  some  obvious  example, 
one  (that  is)  where  the  main  ictus  is  unmistakable,  and 
on  this  basis  attempt,  by  the  help  of  the  correspondences 
which  we  expect,  to  determine  other  main  ictuses.  The 
strophe  will  thus  gradually  fall  into  cola.  This  leads  us 
at  once  to  our  third  question. 

(iii)  Can  we  with  certainty  determine  the  extent  of 
each  colon  ?  Unfortunately  no  simple  invariable  rule 
can  be  given  for  the  settlement  of  this  vital  point.  But 
certain  useful  principles  may  be  mentioned. 

(a)  A  well-trained  ear  is  the  chief  guide.  Intelligent 
and  careful  reading  aloud  of  an  English  prose-passage 
will  show  this.  Take  first  (the  best-known  version  of) 
a  famous  sentence  of  John  Bright : — 

The  Angel  of  Death  is  abroad  in  the  land  :  you  may  almost  hear  the 
beating  of  his  wings. 

It  is  plain  that  this  falls  into  two  rhythmical  parts,  though 
we  shall  not  expect  them  to  correspond,  since  this  is 
prose,  not  verse.  If  we  set  a  dash  for  each  syllable  and 
mark  the  ictuses  by  one  or  more  dots  according  to  their 
strength,  we  find  this  scheme  :— 


(It  will  be  noticed  that  in  this  superb  passage  the  two 
periods  do,  as  it  happens,  correspond  in  length.) 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     349 

Who  hath  believed  our  report?     And  to  whom  is  the  arm  of  the 
Lord  revealed?  (Isaiah  liii.  i). 


So  with  longer  passages,  where,  however,  we  shall  find 
at  times  that  our  voice  quite  naturally  makes  a  colon- 
ending  in  the  midst  of  a  grammatical  sentence. 

Therefore  let  us  also,  ||  seeing  we  are  compassed  about  ||  with  so 
great  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  ||  lay  aside  every  weight,  ||  and  the  sin  which 
doth  so  easily  beset  us,  ||  and  let  us  run  with  patience  ||  the  race  that  is  set 
before  us  ||  (Hebrews  xii.  i,  R.V.). 


(Observe  how,  in  the  last  two  cola,  first  the  mounting 
and  then  the  declining  emphasis  provide  a  splendid  close.) 
Let  us  now  attempt  so  to  catch  the  rhythm  of  a 
passage  from  Sophocles  (Antigone^  582  sqq?)  if  set  out 
as  prose. 


oiori  KaxSiv  ayevaros  alutv.  ois  yap  av  (Tficrdrj  6to6(v  douos, 
urns  oiidfv  cXXciVct,  ytvfds  cirl  ir\rjdos  eprrov  •  o/xotoi/  wore  Trovriais  oiS/xa 
ftvcrirvoois  orav  Qprjo-craicriv  epe|3of  v(pa\ov  eVtSpauj;  irvoais,  Kv\iv8ei  ^vwodtv 
Kf\aivav  diva,  KOI  Svtrdve/ioi  ordi/a)  /Spe/xovtriv  dvTiir\jjy€S  aurai.  dpvala  ra 
Aa{38aKi8av  otitcav  opapai  TrrjfjLaTa  tydiT&v  erri  Trij/iacrt  TTI'TTTOIT',  ovS'  aflraX- 
Xacrcrei  yeveav  ytvos,  dXX'  fpfinti  0e£>v  TIS,  ovS'  e^et  \v<riv.  vvv  yap  fcr^dras 
virtp  pi£as  o  reraro  (pdos  (V  OtSiVov  86/Mis,  KOT'  au  viv  (potvia  6(£>v  rStv 
dpq  KOVIS,  Xoyov  T'  avoia  K.al  (ppevSiv  'Eptvvy. 


If  we  first  mark  the  quantities  (ignoring,  as  we  must 
at  first,  the  possibility  of  L  and  u  )  and  go  over  the 
whole  carefully,  we  soon  find  that  it  falls  into  two  corres- 
ponding portions  :  evSat/xove?  .  .  .  d/crat  is  the  strophe, 
ap^ala  .  .  .  'Eyowus  the  antistrophe.  Next  we  look  for 
rhythmical  units.  On  the  one  hand,  there  is  the  great 
difficulty  that,  since  we  must  have  both  periodic  and 
strophic  equivalence,  certain  cola  may  take  in  words  not 
belonging  to  the  same  sense-groups  or  grammatical 


350  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

clauses.  On  the  other  hand,  the  fact  that  we  have  two 
great  masses  which  correspond  exactly  will  help  us. 
First,  then,  we  note  that  evScu/ioves  .  .  .  ala>v  looks  pro- 
mising, and  observing  that  this  points  to  ap\ala  .  .  . 
6pcu/x,ai  as  a  colon  also,  and  that  this  is  in  itself  likely,  we 
mark  off  both  these  groups.  Conversely,  at  the  end  of 
the  antistrophe,  Xoyov  .  .  .  JEp(,vv9  attracts  us,  and  this 
is  supported  by  the  naturalness  of  crrovat  .  .  .  aural  at 
the  end  of  the  strophe.  Working  backwards,  and  seeing 
a  pause  in  the  punctuation  at  precisely  the  same  place  in 
both  halves,  namely,  after  TTVOOIS  and  $0/1019,  we  assume 
that  KvXti/Set  .  .  .  Sv<rdVe/ioi  and  /car'  av  .  .  .  Kovis  are 
correspondent  masses.  But  each  is  too  long — sixteen 
syllables — to  be  pronounced  as  a  unit.  We  soon  per- 
ceive that  /cvXu>Sei  .  .  .  KeXawdv,  diva  .  .  .  SvcroVe/iot, 
Kar'  av  .  .  .  TO>I>,  veprepuv  .  .  .  KOVIS,  are  all  separate 
cola.  Going  backwards  again,  we  find  that  eVtSpa/iTj  1 
nvoals  and  OtStTrov  $0/1019,  v<j>a\ov  .  .  .  irvoals  and 
(iao9  .  .  .  00/1019,  0piio~o~ato'ti>  .  .  .  irvoals  and  pi^as  .  .  . 
80/1019,  and  indeed  longer  masses  still,  all  give  a  metrical 
correspondence.  W'hich  pair  are  we  to  select  ? 
.  .  .  TTvoals  (  =  vvv  .  .  .  80/1019)  is  too  long  ; 
7r^oat9  (  =  OtStTrov  Soaots)  is  too  short.  For  we  seek 

\  I  / 

the  longest  unit  which  is  convenient.  We  therefore 
mark  off  otS/ia  .  .  .  orav,  vvv  .  .  .  vnep,  Bp^o-o-atcrt^ 
.  .  .  7r^oat9,  pt£a9  .  .  .  So/xot?  as  cola.  The  same 
method  will  give  us  o/iotov  .  .  .  7roi>Ttat9  and  0€a>v 
.  .  .  Xvo-tv.  Then  we  find  ourselves  left  with  oT9 
yap  .  .  .  epnov  and  Tnf/iara  .  .  .  epetVet,  which  we 
divide  after  oVa9  and  Triirrovr. 

At  last  we  can  set  out  the  passage  according  to  its 
structure.     The  strophe  runs  thus  : — 

tv :&aifj.ovfs  |  oicrt  Ka.K\a>v  a\y(v<rrot  \  ai\a>vA\\ 
ois  yap  |  av  cf(ivd\T)  6to\6(v  8op.os 


tpirov 
1  The  first  two  syllables  (^  w)  correspond  to  the  first  (-)  of 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY    851 

0-fUH.OV    |    OHTTf    |    JTOI>Tl|atsJ| 

otS/ia  |  8vcrirvo\ois  or|ai'A|| 


.v    K(\\aivav  \\ 

— «-»        —      «»»     —  <^<     - 
6iva     KCU  S 


There  are  two  periods  : — • 


To  this  the  antistrophe  of  course  corresponds,  though 
here  and  there  an  irrational  long  corresponds  to  a  short 

(e.g.  -eiTrei  to  cpnov)  ;  the  last  syllable  of  Tn^-tara  is 
lengthened  by  the  following  <f>0. 

It  should  be  noted  that  this  scheme  differs  somewhat 
from  that  given  in  Jebb's  edition  of  the  Antigone  (pp. 
Ixi.  sq.\  One  reader's  ear  differs  from  that  of  another : 
hence  the  frequent  divergencies  to  be  observed  between 
editors  in  the  arrangement  of  many  lyrics. 

(b]  The  ancient  writer  Aristoxenus  gives  certain  rules 
as  to  the  maximum  length  of  cola.  They  may  be  stated 
as  follows  : — 

(i)  There  are  three  types  of  colon,  the  equal,  the  un- 
equal, and  the  quinquepartite.  The  equal  cola  are  the 
dipody  of  i  -f  i  feet,  the  tetrapody  of  2  4-  2  ;  the  unequal 
are  the  tripody  of  2  +  i,  and  the  hexapody  of  4  +  2  ;  the 
quinquepartite  is  the  pentapody  of  3  +  2. 

(ii)  Equal  cola  must  not  be  of  greater  length  than 
sixteen  "  shorts  ".  Therefore  we  may  have  a  dipody  of 


352  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

any  foot,  and  a  tetrapody  of  any  save  those  of  more  than 
four  shorts  in  value;  that  is  (e.g.}  a  dipody  of  cretics 
(-  ^  ~)  is  allowed,  but  not  a  tetrapody  of  that  foot,  which 
would  give  5  x  4  =  20  "shorts". 

(iii)  Unequal  cola  may  have  the  length  of  eighteen 
"shorts".  A  tripody,  therefore,  of  any  foot  is  allowed, 
but  a  hexapody  of  trochees  only  :  a  hexapody  of  spondees 
would  give  4  x  6  =  24  "shorts". 

(iv)  Quinquepartite  cola  may  extend  to  the  value  of 
twenty-five  "shorts".  Pentapodies  are  therefore  pos- 
sible of  trochees,  dactyls,  spondees  and  five-time  feet. 

(c)  Certain  detailed  hints  may  be  added  :— 

(i)  The  tetrapody  is  the  most  frequent  length,  the 
pentapody  the  rarest 

(ii)  The  end  of  a  colon  is  often  indicated  in  dactyls 
by  a  spondee,  in  trochees  by  a  single  long  syllable 
(whether  L  or  -  A). 

(iii)  In  any  one  period  there  is  a  tendency  to  conform- 
ity in  length.  If  6  +  5  +  4  and  6  +  6  +  4  are  p^inia 
facie  equally  possible,  the  latter  is  as  a  rule  to  be  pre- 
ferred. In  spite  of  the  difference  in  sum-total  (6  +  6  +  4 
=  16;  6  +  5  +  4=15),  this  question  often  arises,  because 
of  the  possibility  of  TOVTJ.  It  has  to  be  decided1  whether 
(e.g.)  TTCU/TOS  at  the  close  of  a  colon  is  to  be  scanned  as 

L.  -       >_/ 

two  feet  or  one  :  TTCU/TOS  1.1  or  I  Trairo? 

Al| 

It  is  now  time  to  offer  an  account  of  the  various  feet 
used  in  lyrics. 

(a)  Trochees. — With  these  we  are  now  familiar. 
This  foot  is  often  called  a  choree,  chorees  with  anacrusis 

JHow?  By  examination  of  the  whole  period.  If  we  look  at  the 
seventh  line  of  the  strophe  from  Antigone,  scanned  above,  it  may  seem 

_   >  L   _ 

arbitrary  to  write  |  mvav  \\  rather  than  |  aiv\av  A  ||.  But  the  former  method 
is  suggested  by  the  corresponding  fourth  line,  which  cannot  possibly  be 
scanned  otherwise  than  as  above,  and  which  therefore  has  four  feet ;  hence 
we  scan  -aivav  so  as  to  give  the  seventh  line  also  four,  not  five,  feet 
altogether. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY  353 

being  iambi,1  without  anacrusis  trochees.  The  trochee 
is  the  most  frequent  foot  in  lyrics.  Such  systems  express 
ordinary  strong  interest.  Whenever  more  definite 
emotion  is  to  be  conveyed,  either  cyclic  dactyls  are 
introduced,  or  a  change  is  made  to  some  other  metre:  — 


KoXvi'Sos1  re  yas 

irapBtvoi,  pa^as  arpfirroi  (Prom.  VinctUS,  415). 


So  in  English  :  — 

Then,  upon  one  knee  uprising, 
Hiawatha  aimed  an  arrow.  —  (Longfellow.) 

Resolution  into  tribrachs  is  frequent  :  — 
\j\j  \j  —     »»>  —  \j    —   <*> 

Apa/3t|as  T  ap\(iov  \  avdos  \\  (Prom.  Vinctus,  420). 

Anacrusis  is  common. 

(&)  Dactyls.  —  These  are  found  pure,  or  mingled  with 
spondees  or  quasi-trochees  (L  J).  They  are  often  em- 
ployed to  express  excitement  and  awe  :  — 


&  Aiof  6.8vf7res  (/Km,  Tts  iroTf  ras  iro\vxpv(rov 
Hvd&vos  dyXdas  (pas  ;  (CEd.  Tyr.,  151). 


Anacrusis  is  found,  as  in  the  second  line  above  and  in 
Medea,  635  :  — 


i  de  p.e\<ra><ppocrvv  \  a  8u>p\\r]p.a  \  KaXXtcrTloi/   6e\a>v  ^  ||. 

The  tetrapody  without  spondees  or  catalexis  gives  an 
exquisite  heaving  effect  in  Soph.  Electra,  147-9:  — 

1  It  is  therefore  possible  to  scan  the  ordinary  iambics  of  dialogue  as 
trochees  :  — 

•>      -  \j      —      >       —    \j  —    >       -<-»    — 
tid-a>(j>t\  |  Apyovs  \  pj  8t|a7rra(7^|at  tTKa^lo^    (Afedeat  I). 

This  is  the  method  followed  by  Dr.  J.  H.  H.  Schmidt,  and  of  course 
changes  altogether  the  rules  given  above  (§  II),  but  will  hardly  perplex  the 
student.  It  has  the  advantage  of  bringing  "iambic"  dialogue  closer  to 
lyric  and  to  episodic  trochees,  but  it  has  seemed  more  convenient  to  keep 
the  traditional  statement 

2  Printed  as  one  line,  though  containing  a  colon  which  ends  with  the 
end  of  a  word,  because  the  corresponding  line  of  the  antistrophe  contains 
a  colon  which  does  not  :  — 

n-pwTa  (re  KenXopevos,  6vyar\\fp  Aids,  apftpor'  'Addva,  .  .   . 
23 


354  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

aXX'  (fjif  y"  &  (TTov6fcrcrt  apapev  (frpevas, 
<J  "irvv  alfv  "\TVV  6\o<pvpfTai} 
opvis  aTv^op.tva,  Ai6r  ayytXos. 

Ariel's  lines  in  The  Tempest  (V.  i.)  :  — 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough, 

are  dactylic  tetrapodies  with  catalexis. 

(c)  Spondees.  —  It  is  not  certain  that  these  are  used 
as  a  base,  though  as  a  variant  in  anapaestic  and  dactylic 
metre  they  are  common.  Iph.  Taur.,  123-5,  mav  be 
taken  as  spondees  :  — 


irovrov  8i(T(Tas 

'.\£fivov  vaiovTts. 


But  they  may  be  quasi-anapaests,  the  whole  passage 
which  they  introduce  being  an  anapaestic  entrance- 
march,  though  heavily  spondaic.  Ion,  125-7  : 

<L  Ilauif  ,  &>  liauiv, 
fvatcov,  evaitov 
t*r)s,  Z>  A.arovs  irat, 

is  scanned  by   Dr.    J.    H.    H.    Schmidt  as  molossi,  a 

molossus  being  ---  . 

Spondaic  systems  are  scarcely  to  be  found  in  English.1 
(d]  Cretics.  —  This  foot  (-^-)  is  rare;  it  generally 

expresses  piteous  agitation  :  — 

(ppovTicrov,  KOI  yevov  irav8iK<t)S 


rav  <t>vyd8a 

rav  (Kadfv  (Kf3o\ais 

8va-0tois  oppevav   (^Esch.,  Supplices,  418  sqq.). 


1  Because  spondaic  words  are  lacking.  It  is  sometimes  said  that  the 
only  spondee  in  English  is  "  amen  ".  The  peculiar  pronunciation  of  this 
word  is  due  to  the  fact  that  it  is  so  often  sung  to  music  where  each  syllable 
is  given  a  whole  bar.  The  name  of  Seaford  in  Sussex  is  undoubtedly  pro- 
nounced by  its  inhabitants  --  ;  but  one  may  perhaps  therefore  argue  that 
it  should  be  written  "  Sea  Ford  ". 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY     355 

Few  cretics  are  found  in  English,  though  Tennyson's 
brief  poem  The  Oak  is  written  entirely  in  this  metre, 
e.g.  :— 

All  his  leaves 

Fall'n  at  length, 
Look,  he  stands, 
Trunk  and  bough, 

Naked  strength. 

Most  English  verse  of  cretic  appearance  is  shown  by  the 
context  to  be  trochaic  with  alternate  7-01/77.  So  in  A  Mid- 
summer Nights  Dream,  II.  i.  :  — 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 
Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

which  is  followed  by 

I  do  |  wander  |  every  |  where  A  | 

Swifter  |  than  the  |  moones  |  sphere  A  |  etc. 

We  are  forbidden  to  view  the  Greek  cretics  given  above 
in  the  same  way,  by  the  resolved  feet.  If  we  scan 
<f>p6vTL(rov  Kal  yevov  TravStKws  as  -<-»|L|-^|L|-^|-,Jl, 
this  method  will  give  us  in  the  fourth  line  -  «  I  w  I  -  «  I  -  ||, 
where  the  second  foot  is  impossible.  «  «  can  take  the 
place  of  -,  but  never  of  L. 

(e)  Bacchiacs.  —  This  curious  foot  consists  of  --^,  the 
system  being  invariably  introduced  by  anacrusis.  Bac- 
chiacs are  regularly  associated  with  dochmiacs(see  below). 
They  express  strong  emotion,  generally  mingled  with 
perplexity  or  vacillation  ;  resolved  feet  are  therefore 
often  found  :  — 


rs  o.\a>^  rs      p. 

irpocreirra  p  dfayyrjs  ;  (Prom.  Vincfus,  1  1  5). 


cira6ov  S  Swo-oiora  (Eumenides,  788  sq.}. 


v->  :*-»«-»  ~  <-• 


356  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Ye  storm-winds  of  Autumn  ! 

Who  rush  by,  who  shake 

The  window,  and  ruffle 

The  gleam-lighted  lake.—  (M.  Arnold.) 


But  it  should  be  noted  that,  though  bacchiac  scansion 
seems  soundest  for  the  above—  -"storm-  winds"  for 
instance  has  two  ictuses  —  the  poet  probably  meant  the 
lines  for  dactylic  dipodies  with  anacrusis  :  "storm-winds 
of"  thus  would  be  an  accentual  dactyl.  But  that  would 
slur  "  winds  "  unduly. 

(/)  Ionics.  —  These  are  formed  by  -w<^.  When 
anacrusis  is  found  —  the  usual  form  —  the  foot  is  often 
called  lonicus  a  minore  (i.e.  ^  <-•--)  ;  otherwise  it  is  called 
lonicus  a  maiore  :  — 

Kvavovv  8'  opfiaai  Xewtrtrcov  (poviov  8epyfj.a  ftpdicovTos 

*  JroXuj/avras  ~S.vpi.Qv  81  ap^a  SIUKCOV  (Persce,  8  1  sq.\ 


A  strange  variant  is  -  ^  -  ^  ;  the  variation  is  called  "  ana- 
clasis"  ("breaking-up").  Thus  the  above  passage 
proceeds — 

(Tray ft  8ovpiK\vrois  dv8pd(Ti  TO^68ap.vov"Aprj. 
«_>vj|  —  «-»«->  I  —  v^\j||~v^~v^  I  ~  •*•  ||- 

Ionics  are  employed  to  express  strong  excitement 
governed  by  confident  courage.  The  first  lyric  of  the 
Persa  begins  with  a  splendid  example.  It  is  sung  by 
the  Persian  counsellors  in  expectation  of  Xerxes'  triumph, 
and  makes  a  strong  contrast  with  the  piteous  rhythms 
of  the  close.  This  poem  should  be  studied  carefully  in 
comparison  with  another  in  the  same  metre — the  opening 
of  the  first  chorus  in  the  Baccha  (vv.  64  sqq. )  :— 

'Acrias  drr&  yaias 

Bpofiia)  rrovav  T)8in> 

Kaparov  T  evxdpaTov,  BaK^ioc  eva£op,fva. 

TIS  68<5 ;    TIS  68q> ;    TIS  pf\d8pois ;  (K.TOITOS  eorco, 
crro/ia  T'  fvtprjfiov  fliras  f£o(riovcrda>  • 
TCI  vofutrffevTa  yap  dd  ^lovvcrov  vf. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY    357 


v,« 

LJ  \s  <*t 

—  J 

M 

U  w  u> 

|--^D 

- 

LJ  w  \J 

~*MH--Wwt—  T|| 

^ 

w  w 

--^||-^->|  UxB 

I 

2 

3 — mesode. 

2 
II 

(I 

III 

f 
\2 

3 — mesode. 
I2 

\2 


This  song  of  the  Bacchantes,  like  that  of  the  Persians, 
expresses  both  excitement  and  confidence ;  both  are 
magnificent,  and  the  metre  is  the  same.  But  the  differ- 
ence is  unmistakable  ;  it  lies  in  the  rhythm.  In  JEs- 
chylus  the  practically  unvaried  rhythm  and  the  gorgeous 
language  give  to  such  a  passage  as  TroXv^et/a  /cat  TTO\V- 
vavras  ^vpiov  ff  ap^a  oia>/can>  an  almost  intolerable 
weight  and  austere  pomp.  Euripides,  by  use  of  the 
doubly-lengthened  syllable,  by  varying  the  extent  of 
his  cola,  and  by  the  irrationality  of  the  penultimate  foot, 
has,  within  the  limits  of  the  same  metre,  produced  a 
sense  of  exotic  beauty  and  urgency,  a  thrill  of  wildness 
as  well  as  of  awe. 

(g)  Choriambics. — These   consist   of  -^^-.     Ana- 
crusis is  not  found  : — 

Setva  fjitv  ovv,  Sftva  rapacrcm  cro<pbs  olovodtrnv 

ovre  &>KotW  OVT'  diro(f)d<rKOvd'  •  o  n  Ae£a>  §'  dirop£>  ((Ed.  Tyr.,  483  sq.). 


This  measure  expresses  great  agitation  and  perplexity. 
In  the  passage  just  cited  they  pass  into  ionics,  which 
indicate  a  gradual  comparative  calming  of  mind.  For 
example,  the  antistrophe  reads : — 


358  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

dAX'  6  ftev  ovv  Ztvs  5  r'  'ArroXXoH/  avvfroi  KOI  TO.  fiparwv 
(iSarfS  •  dv8p£>v  8'  on  p.dvns  rrXe'ov  r)  'yo> 
Kplais  OVK  eaTiv  d\rjdf]s  •  crotpia  8*  SLV  (ro<piav 
v  dvrjp. 


\j\j\--  \^\j  |   U  7r||- 

The  late  Rupert  Brooks  left  some  exquisite  Experiments 
in  this  metre,  e.g.  :  — 

Ah  !  Not  now,  when  desire  burns,  and  the  wind  calls,  and  the  suns 

of  spring 
Light-foot  dance  in  the  woods,  whisper  of  life,  woo  me  to  wayfaring. 

That  is  — 

l_  l_  I  -w  «-»-  I  -^  w-||-v-»  w-  I     L  L  || 

(^)  Dochmiacs.  —  It  is  convenient  to  discuss  these 
here,  though  the  dochmius  is  not  a  foot,  but  a  colon. 
The  rule  both  of  metre  and  music  is  that  all  feet  or  bars 
should  have  the  same  time-  value  ;  a  trochaic  colon  may 
contain  L  or  -w^  as  well  as  -w,  but  not  -w.  Doch- 
miacs are  generally  regarded  as  an  exception  to  this  rule. 
The  dochmius  is  a  colon  of  which  the  simplest  form  l  is 
w--w-,  to  be  divided  <-••:--  w|-A||,  e.g.  KaKopprjf^ovatv. 
The  dochmius  is  always  catalectic,  but  the  anacrusis  of  one 
serves  to  complete  the  trochee  of  the  preceding  colon  :  — 

(pavrjTG)  fjiopatv  6  KoXXior'  fp.5>v 

e'/xoi  rep/jiiav  iiya>v  Aptpav  {Antigone^  I329  $?•)• 

vS  —  wl-wfl  —  w|-A||. 

But  this  simplest  form  is  not  the  most  frequent,  and  a 
considerable  sequence  is  rare.  Resolution  of  one  or 
more  long  syllables  is  very  common.  The  favourite 
form  is  w^^-^i-JI  :  — 

yap  ol  irrfpo(p6pov  M/JMS  (Agamemnon,  1  147). 


This  metre  is  frequent  in  passages  of  lamentation,  and 
as  these  are  extremely  numerous  the  dochmiac  measure 
is  one  of  the  most  important.  It  is  also  perhaps  the 
most  difficult,  because  of  the  many  varieties  admitted. 
In  all,  twenty-two2  forms  are  said  to  be  found,  though 

1  This  important  sequence  may  be  conveniently  memorized — if  we 
substitute  accent  for  quantity — by  the  sentence  "  Attack  Rome  at  once''. 

3  I  take  this  figure  from  Schmidt's  Introduction  (English  Translation, 
p.  76). 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY    359 

several  of  these  are  rare ;   this  great  number  is  due  to 
resolution  and  irrational  long  syllables.     Thus — 

tO)   (TKOTOV 

vf(pos  fpbv  dirarponov,  (nnr\6fifvov  afparov 
dddfiorov  T(  <cat  ftvcrovpicrrov  ov  ((Ed.  Tyr.^  13*3)- 

^     LJ   v    I-JI 


The  second  line  of  course  would  by  itself  have  no  rhythm 
at  all,  being  so  completely  broken  to  pieces,  in  order  to 
express  the  extreme  limit  of  agitation  possible  in  articu- 
late speech.  But  it  gains  rhythm  from  the  clearer  lines 
of  the  context.  The  antistrpphe  shows  a  further  variety 
—an  irrational  syllable  in  the  last  line  :  — 

to)  <pi\«s, 

(TV  fiev  ffios  eVtTroXos  en  /ndi/t/ioff  •  CTt  yap 

virofj,ev€is  fJ.e  TOV  rv(f)\bv  K 


Evidently  it  is  important  to  accustom  one's 
ear  thoroughly  to  the  basic  form  ^  -  -  «  -  and  to  w  w  ^  -  «  -. 
Another  instance  may  be  of  use  :  — 


Spa  TrvXai  K\ijdpois  ^a 
\aivfounv  'AfjL(piovos  opydvois 

(Phcenissce^  114 


The  last  division  of  our  subject  is  the  different  types 
of  period,  the  various  ways  in  which  cola  are  combined 
and  correspond.  It  should  be  noted  that  a  colon  with 
anacrusis  can  correspond  to  one  without  ;  so  of  catalexis 
and  Tovrj. 

(i)  The  simplest  form  is  the  stichic  (a-rix0^  "  a  row  ")» 
in  which  the  cola  are  of  the  same  length.  The  scheme 

is  (a  —  that  is  (I  or  (J  or  (6,  etc.  —  or  /«,  and  so  forth  :  — 

\a 


TTO.S  yap 

KOI  ire8o(rripr)s  Xew?  (Persce,  126 


360  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

Where  correspondence  is  indicated  by  (^.     It  makes  no 

difference  that  L  is  answered  by  -^  in  the  second  foot, 
(ii)  To  the  stichic  corresponds  the  palinodic  period 
(TraXuxuSi'a,  "repetition"),  in  which  not  a  single  colon 
but  a  group  of  cola  is  repeated  so  far  as  length  is  con- 
cerned : — 

fj.fi£ov(riv  fj  Trpos  Hvdiatt  »)  \apird(nv  durals, 

ov  irorviai  crtpva  Ttdrjvovvrai  Ti\r)  {(Ed.  Co/.,  IO47  sf.). 


This  type  of  period  is  frequent  in  English  poetry,  where 
the  use  of  rhyme  and  the  absence  of  TOVTJ  make  the  cola 
perfectly  plain,  e-g. : — 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea 

From  whence  his  Mother  rose  ; 
No  time  his  slaves  from  care  sets  free, 

Or  gives  their  hearts  repose. — (Sedley.) 

(iii)  Antithetic  periods  are  formed  by  the  inverted 
repetition  whether  of  different  cola  or  of  different  groups 
of  cola. 

(a)  The  simplest  type  is  that  in  which  a  series  of  un- 
grouped  cola  is  repeated  in  inverse  order  : — 

Biavraiav  \eytis  Bofioicri  KOI 


dpauu  r'  fK  rrarpbs  8i\6(f)povi  TTOT/XW  {Stpteni,  895 


(&}  In  a  similar  manner  groups  may  be  repeated 
antithetically.  Each  group  retains  its  internal  order  ; 
hence  such  periods  are  called  "  palinodic-antithetic  "  :  — 


8t'  alutvos  panpov 

(v6(v  iracra  j3oa  ^dwi', 

"  <pvcri£6ov  ytvos  r68t  Zrjvos  f<mv 

TIS  yap  av  KdTeiravo-fv  "Upas  vocrovs  fTriftovXovs  ;  " 

Ator  ro8'  epyov  xal  r68'  av  ytvos  \(ya>v 

t£  'E7ra0ou  Kvprja-ats  (^Esch.,  Supplices,  582  sqq.). 


(iv)  Any  of  the  three  periods  just  described,  the 
stichic,  the  palinodic,  the  antithetic  (whether  simple  or 
palinodic-antithetic)  may  be  "  mesodic,"  that  is,  it  may 
be  grouped  round  a  central  colon  (the  mesode),  to  which 
no  colon  corresponds,  save  of  course  the  mesode  of  the 
other  strophe.  The  schemes,  then,  are  : — 


(a)  Stichic- 
mesodic. 


(b)  Palinodic- 
mesodic. 


)  Antithetic- 
mesodic. 


(d)  Palinodic- 
antithetic-mesodic. 


(a)  The  stichic-mesodic 


<ppovri8os  crrfprjOeis 
Ov  fj.tpi/j.vav 
o-rra  Tpdirafuu,  irirvovros  oinov  {AgCMiemnon,  153°  S9f-) 


The  palinodic-mesodic  :  — 


<rvfj.(popdv, 
^fJ-ovav  yevt 
'I8aiav  ore  irp&rov  vXav 
v8pos  fih-arivav 
',  a\iov  fir'  olSfia  va.v<rro\r)(Ta>v  {Hecuba^  629 


362  GREEK  TRAGEDY 

(c)  The  antithetic-mesodic  :  — 

tn>  TOI  (rv  rot  «caT»j|/ei)o-ar, 
2>  fiapvirorfK,  KOVK 
aXXodfv  e 


ra        iro  p. 

e£reye  rrapbv  (^poi/TJcrGU  .    .    .   (Philoctetes,  1095 


(d]  The  palinodic-antithetic-mesodic  :  — 


py  pai  fi.i 

fji6vos  fiovG)  Koutfe  rropdfJLidos  crud^tos. 
pfv  ai/Xtf  rj8f,  ^atperw  8( 


A.ITVOIOS  £(VIK£ 
T\ap.ov 
Sorts  8o>fidT<av  e(pf(rriovs  .   .  .   (Cyclops,  361 


Most  of  the  periodic  structures  which  have  been  dis- 
cribed  are  by  no  means  obvious  to  the  ear.  A  trained 
sense  of  rhythm,  attention  to  quantity,  and  careful  prac- 
tice, will  reduce  the  difficulties.  But  in  any  case  Greek 
periods  are  far  less  easy  to  grasp  than  English.  Their 
variety  and  length,  the  frequent  occurrence  of  prolonga- 
tion, resolution,  and  irrational  syllables,  the  possibility 
of  preludes  or  postludes  —  all  these  are  formidable  to 
modern  students,  who  lack  the  help  of  the  music.  We 
may  perhaps  work  out  the  period  with  ease  on  paper, 

1  The  first  two  syllables  of  this  word  form  the  anacrusis,  though  the 
metre  is  trochaic  ;  that  is,  we  find  v-»  w  instead  of  w.     In  such  cases  the 
two  "shorts"  are  given  the  length  of  one  only,  and  this  is  indicated  by 
the  sign  o>. 

2  1  have  taken  Schmidt's  readings  and  arrangement  for  the  sake  of 
an  example.     Murray's  arrangement  is  quite  different. 


METRE  AND  RHYTHM  IN  GREEK  TRAGEDY    363 

but  our  ear  often  cannot  appreciate  the  balance  and  con- 
tour of  the  whole  as  it  can  in  English  lyrics,  where  we 
have  the  immense  assistance  of  a  rhyme-scheme.  But 
it  is  no  sound  deduction  that  the  study  of  Greek  lyric 
metre  and  rhythm  is  therefore  useless.  We  cannot 
always  hear  the  period — that  is  a  question  of  music ; 
but  we  can  always  hear  the  colon — that  is  a  question  of 
language.  To  utter  the  cola  correctly  is  easy  after  a 
little  practice;  and  it  is  these  "sentences"  which,  by 
their  own  internal  rhythmical  nature  and  by  the  identities 
or  contrasts  existing  between  them,  reinforce  and  more 
pungently  articulate  the  sense  of  the  words  wherefrom 
they  are  moulded. 


INDICES 
I.    GREEK 


Names  of  plays,  etc.,,  in  capitals 


A0AA,  5. 

AIA2,  132-6. 

—  MA2TirO*OPO2,  132-6. 

AITNAIAI,  1  19. 

AAKH2TI2,  186-92. 

avafiaivw,  54  n. 

avdyicT),  38. 

t,  32,  293  n. 

ta,  325. 

ovffis,  342  n. 
ANAPOMAXH,  219-28. 
av)jp  Styvxos,  311. 
ANTirONH,  136-41. 
,  181  n. 


frfi!  344« 
3  n. 

airb  (TKTjvfjs,  57- 
£TTJ,  129. 
aSflis,  83. 

AXAIflN  2TAAOFO2,  174. 
AXIAAEfl2  EPA2TAI,  174. 

BAKXAI,  277-85. 
frahXavTiov,  34  n. 
BA22APAI,  117. 
BA22APIAE2,  117- 
PpvTov,  n8n. 

i'  (TTj/ieiov,  163  n. 

s,  336  n. 

AIAA2KAAIAI,  62. 
8pa<ra«/Tt  iraOerj/,  lion.,  129  and  n. 

EKABH,  215-9. 
^KffvpirTfiv,  83  n. 
EKTOPO2  ATTPA,  "8. 
f\f\e\ev,  25. 
EAENH,  258-64. 
EAET2INIOI,  1  19. 
fireicr6Sia,  4  n. 
EHIAHMIAI,  23  n. 
M  ffKT\vris,  57,  59. 

ittl  TT)S  (TKT/I/^S,  54. 
ci  Ttl/OS  fJLfTftilpOV,   57- 

344. 


twtpSds,  345  n. 
ETMENIAE2,  111-7. 


,  ig  n. 

HAflNOI,  117. 

HAEKTPA,  141-5,  252-8. 

HAIAAE2,  119. 

^/ujx<{pja,  78. 

HPAKAEIAAI,  200-5. 

HPAKAH2  MAINOMENO2,  228-34. 

dflov,  rb,  30. 
Beiis,  283. 

0EPI2TAI,  192,  296. 
BfcapiicSv,  rb,  82. 
0PHI22AI,  rig. 
6vfaf\rj,  51. 
9v/j.6s,  22,  198. 

IKETIAE2,  84-6,  234-6. 

fcpia,  81. 

mnOATTO2  KAATnTOMENO2,  205  n. 

—  2TE*ANH*OPO2,  205-15. 

—  2TE4-ANIA2,  205-15. 
I*irENEIA  H  EN  ATAIAI,  285-9. 
---  TATPOI2,  247-52. 
IXNETTAI,  175-6,  289  n. 

IflN,  236-43. 

KABEIPOi,  ng. 
Karaftaifta,  54  n. 
Kara\-fiyu,  334  n. 
KepniSes,  51. 

K\ifJ.CUCfs,  51. 

KdQopvos,  6g. 
K0fj.fj.oi,  74. 

KOfJ.fJ.As,    IO7. 

Kopv<f>aios,  78. 
Kpr}wls,  68. 
KTKAfl'V,  289-91. 
KU\OV,  343. 


341  n. 


366 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


MEFA  APAMA,  24  and  n. 
MEAANinnH  AE2MnTI2,  305  n. 

—  H  2O*H,  305  n. 

fJLt(T(fSlK6v,    344. 

MHAEIA,  192-9. 
MX*rf>>  65. 

/j-vpurixos  arparovs,  26  n. 
MTPMIAONE2,  118. 

NEANI2KOI,  117. 
NHPHIAE2,  118. 

NIOBH,  119. 

VO/JLOl,    72. 

6yKos,  6g. 

OIAinOT2  EHI  KOAnNfll,  167-73. 

—  TTPANNO2,  145-54. 

ol  Iv  r<f  (pavepf  Bdvaroi,  45  and  n. 
OI  EHTA  EHI  0HBA2,  8g. 
oiKf'ta  ^djLara,  20. 


s,  56,  57. 
OPE2TH2,  268-77. 
,  5°. 


,  360. 

71. 

trapacricfivia,  51. 
-irapeiriypcHpfi,  175. 
irapotioi,  51. 
veplaxroi,  63. 

TTfpioSoS,  343. 

HEP2AI,  86. 
irpotSpia,  8l. 
nPOMHeET2  AE2MnTH2,  91-8. 

—  ATOMENO2,  92-3. 

—  irrp*opo2,  92-3. 


344. 


72. 


i,  82. 
PH2O2,  291-5. 
pot&Sos,  175  n. 


113  n. 

52,   54. 

o-fi.iKpbt>  &TOJ,  171  and  n. 
\6yos,  171  and  n. 
>  faults,  ravrriv  x6fffj.fi,  295. 

o-rxos,  359-  . 
ffrpoip-fi,  344. 
avyKOirfi,  34!  n. 
(TLTixcfieia,  330  n. 
2TNAEinNOI,  174. 
2TNEKAHMHTIK02,  23  n. 
a-vvlfaffis,  332. 


T^J  (TKTJPTJJ,  54. 
T€TpoXo<yta,  61  n. 
rl  ravra  irpbs  rij'  &i6vvcrov  ;  2  n. 
rb  8e  Spa/ta  TWV  5«  intpuv,  223  and  n. 
rb  Oerov,  30. 
rb  6ttapin6v,  82. 
TOK^,  341,  347.  352,  355,  360- 
rpdyos,  62  n. 
rpaytfSla,  62  n. 
TPAXINIAI,  154-60. 
TpjjS^,  38- 
TPHIAAE2,  243-6. 
,  28,  32. 


I. 

.,  22,  23  n. 
,  78- 


*IAOKTHTH2,  161. 
*OINI22AI,  264-8. 
(ppdtris  ruv  irpayfidrwy,  S 

TrE2,  118. 
ipvaris,  318. 

XOH*OPOI,  106-10. 
XPI2TO2  nA2XfiN,  41. 

yTXO2TA2IA,  120. 


II.  PLACES,  ETC. 


A.  =  Aristophanes,  SL.  =  ^Eschylus,  E.  =  Euripides,  S. 
Sh.  =  Shakespeare. 


Sophocles, 


ABDERA,  298. 

Acharnse,  in  Acharnians,  296. 

Achelous,  in  Trachinice,  160. 

—  3°4  n- 
Acropolis,  14,  49,  239. 

—  in  Eumenides,  113. 
/Egospotami,  13,  182,  324. 
./Ethiopia,  in  Andromeda,  299. 
^Etolia,  in  Cresphontes,  307-8. 
Alexandria,  Library  of,  39. 

—  Pleiad  of,  39. 

-  Theatrical  activity  in,  3rd  century 

B.C.,  39. 

Amphipolis,  294. 

Arachnaeus,  Mount,  in  Agamemnon,  101. 
Arden,  Forest  of,  63. 
Areopagus,  in  Eumenides,  112  ff.,  128  n. 
Argolid  plain,  in  S.'s  Electra,  63. 
Argos,  in  Agamemnon,  99  ff. 
Choephorce,  106. 

—  —  Eumenides,  112. 

Supplices  of  M.,  84. 

E.'s  Electra,  253. 

Heracleidce,  200  ff. 

Orestes,  268  ff. 

Supplices,  234  n.,  235. 

Telephus,  295. 

—  316,  321. 

Asia  Minor,  Graeco-Roman  theatres  in, 

59  n« 

Asopus,  plain  of,  in  Agamemnon,  124. 
Athens,   228-9,  244,  252  n.,  307,   312, 

324-5- 

—  Agathon  of,  21. 

—  and  drama,  3,  5. 
Euripides,  317  ff. 

—  Athena's  temple  in,  63. 

—  in  Eumenides,  in  ff. 

(Ed.  Coloneus,  168  ff.,  185. 

E.'s  Erechtheus,  297. 

Hippolytus,  205  ff.,  213. 

Ion,  236  ff. 

Supplices,  234  n.,  235. 

—  local  cults  of,  in  M.,  128. 


Athens,  Phrynichus  of,  6. 

—  Sophocles  of,  12. 
Athens'  war  with  Eleusis,  119. 
Athos,  Mt.,  in  Agamemnon,  101. 
Attica,  4,  279. 

—  and  Furies,  131. 

—  E.'s  cenotaph  in,  18. 

—  in  Eumenides,  113. 

Heracleidce,  zoo. 

Medea,  194. 

Aulis,  247,  270. 

—  in  Iph.  at  A.,  285  ff. 

BRADFIELD  College,  Gk.  plays  at,  55. 
Byzantium,  313. 

—  Homer,  the  tragedian  of?  40. 

—  Python  of  ?  39. 

CARIA,  Mausolus,  k.  of,  38. 
Catana,  Python  of  ?  39. 
Chaeronea,  battle  of,  31. 
Chapel,  Sistine,  102. 
Chios,  Ion  of,  21  ff. 

—  Sophocles  in,  15. 

Chryse",  in  S.'s  Philoctetes,  161. 
Cithajron,  Mt.,  in  (Ed.  Tyr.,  147  ff. 

E.'s  Bacchce,  277  ff. 

Colchis,  Mt.,  in  E.'s  Medea,  192  ff. 
Colonus,  Fumenides  at,  172. 

—  in  (Ed.  Coloneus,  168  ff. 

—  Sophocles'  home,  172. 

song, 71. 

Congo,  Upper,  248. 
Corinth,  22. 

—  and  drama,  3. 

—  in  (Ed.  Tyr.,  147. 

Medea,  192  ff.,  313. 

Crete,  in  Hippolytus,  206  ff. 
Cynthus,  249. 

Cyzicus,  167. 


DELIUM,  234  n. 

Delphi,  257. 

—  in  Choephorce,  108,  no. 


367 


368 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Delphi,  in  Eumenides,  in  flf.,  63. 

S.'s  Electro,  142. 

(Ed.  Tyr.,  147  ff. 

E.'s  Andromache,  220  ff. 

Ion,  236  ff.,  314. 

Iph.  T.,  247  ff. 

Medea,  193. 

Phccnissa,  264. 

Dodona,  in  E.'s  Andromache,  221. 

EGYPT,  184. 

—  in  Prom.  V.,  94. 

Supplices  of  JE.,  84  ff. 

Helena  of  E.,  259  ff.,  322. 

Eleusis,  M.  of,  10,  119. 

—  mysteries  of,  10,  n,  173. 
Eleutherae,  priest  of  Dionysus  of,  80. 
England  and  Education,  324. 
Eretria,  Achaeus  of,  21,  25. 

—  Menedemus  of,  25. 
Eridanus,  R.,  in  Hippolytus,  208. 
Etna,  Mt.,  in  Cyclops,  289  f. 

eruption  of,  in  Prom.  V.,  91. 

Eubcea,  in  Agamemnon,  101. 

—  TrachinicE,  154. 

FOREST  OF  ARDEN,  in  Shakespeare,  63. 

GELA,  n. 

Great  Britain,  dramatic  renaissance  in, 
v. 

HADES,  86,  95,  202-3. 

—  in  Critias'  Pirithous,  29. 
E.'s  Here.  Fur.,  228  ff. 

—  Sophocles  in,  14  n. 
Halicarnassus,  Dionysius  of,  306  n. 
Helene,  island  of,  262. 

Hellas,  89,  248. 
Hull,  248. 
Hydaspes  R.,  39. 

ICARIA,  Thespis  of,  4. 
Ilium,  245. 

JHELUM  R.,  39. 

LEMNOS,  in  JE.'s  Philoctetes,  120. 

E.'s   Hypsipyle,  304. 

S.'s  Philoctetes,  161  ff. 

Lenaeon,  49. 

Lesbos,  in  JE.'s  Bassarids,  117. 

MACEDONIA,  Archelaus,  k.  of,  18. 

—  E.'s  death  in,  15,  277. 
Macistus,  Mt.,  in  Agamemnon,  124. 
Malea,  275. 

Marathon,  122,  163,  325. 

—  JE.  at,  10. 

—  in  Heracleida,  200. 


Melos,  sack  of,  244. 

—  Venus  of,  182. 

Messenia,  in  E.'s  Cresphontes,  307. 
Miletus,  capture  of,  494  B.C.,  7. 
Molottia,  in  Andromache,  221. 
Mount  Arachnaeus,  see  Arachnaeus. 

—  Athos,  see  Athos. 

—  Cithaeron,  see  C. 

—  Etna,  see  E. 

—  CEta,  see  CE. 

—  Parnassus,  see  P. 

Mysia,  in  E's  Telephus,  295-6. 

NAUPLIA,  275. 

Nemea,  in  E.'s  Hypsipyle,  304. 
Nile,  R.,  in  E.'s  Helena,  322. 
Nine  Ways,  294. 

ODESSA,  248. 

Odeum  at  Athens,  56. 

CEnophyta,  184. 

CEta,  Mt.,  in  Trachinice,  155. 

Omphalos  at  Delphi,  in  Eumenides,  in. 

Othrys,  Mt.,  in  Alcestis,  188. 

Oxyrhynchus,  18,  304. 

PARNASSUS,  Mt.,  in  Ion,  237. 
Parthenon,  14,  182. 
Peiraeus,  49,  245. 
Peloponnese,  6,  304. 
Persia,  in  Persce,  123-4. 
Phaselis,  Theodectes  of,  36. 
Pherae,  Alexander  of,  35. 

—  in  Alcestis,  186. 
Phlius,  Pratinas  of,  6. 
Phocis,  249. 

Phthia,  in  Andromache,  219  ff. 
Plataea,  battle  of,  in  Persce,  87. 
Propylaea,  14. 
Punjaub,  39. 

SALAMIS,  7,  12,  14. 

—  M.  at,  10. 

—  E.  at,  17. 

—  E.  born  at,  17. 

—  in  Persez,  87. 

Saronic  gulf,  in  Agamemnon,  124. 

Scyros,  in  S.'s  Philoctetes,  162. 

Scythia,  in  Prom.  V.,  93. 

Seaford,  Sussex,  354  n. 

Shrine  of  Thetis,  in  Andromache,  219 

ff. 

Sicilian  sea,  in  E.'s  Electra,  253. 
Sicily,  119,  313. 

—  .#£.  in,  10. 
Sicyon,  3  n.,  22. 

—  Neophron  of,  21. 
Sistine  Chapel,  102. 
South  Russia,  247-8. 
Sparta,  in  E.'s  Telephus,  295. 


II.  PLACES,  ETC. 


369 


Sparta,  in  A.'s  Acharnians,  296. 
Susa,  Xerxes'  palace  at,  in  Perscz, 
Syracuse,  E.  in,  17. 
—  Hiero  of,  10. 


TAURI,  in  Iph.  T.,  321. 
Tegea,  Aristarchus  of,  21-2. 
Tent  of  Agamemnon,  52. 
Thebes,  in  Seven. 

Antigone,  137  ff. 

(Ed.  Col.,  168  ff.,  185. 

-  (Ed.  Tyr.,  145  ff. 
—  E.'s  Antiope,  298. 

BacchcB,  277  ff. 

Here.  Fur.,  228  ff. 

Hypsipyle,  304-5. 

Phcenissce,  264  ff. 

Supplices,  235. 

The  Marshes,  Athens,  49. 
Thessaly,  in  Alcestis,  186  ff. 

Andromache,  219  ff. 

Thibet,  248. 

Thrace  and  Athens,  294-5. 

—  in  Hecuba,  215  ff. 

Tomb  of  Achilles,  in  Hecuba,  216. 

Agamemnon,  in  E.'s  Electro,  253. 


Tomb  of  Clytaemnestra,  in  E.'s  Orestes, 
269. 

Darius,  in  M.'s  Persce,  64. 

Proteus,  in  E.  's  Helena,  259. 

Trachis,  in  Trachinia,  154  ff. 

Troad,  295. 

Trcezen,  in  Hippolytus,  205  ff. 

Troy,  118,  270. 

—  in  Agamemnon,  99  ff. 

^E.'s  Philoctetes,  120. 

Weighing  of  the  Souls,  120. 

S.'s  Ajax,  132  ff. 

Laocoon,  174. 

Philoctetes,  161  ff. 

E.'s  Electra,  253. 

Hecuba,  215  ff. 

Helena,  259  ff. 

I.  A.,  285  ff. 

Rhesus,  291  ff. 

Telephus,  295. 

Troades,  243. 

UPPER  CONGO,  248. 

VERONA,  its  scenery,  in  Sh.,  63. 

Venusberg,  283. 

Venice,  its  scenery,  in  Sh.,  63. 


III.  PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


A.  =  Aristophanes,  JR.  —  .flJschylus,  Ar.  =  Aristotle,  E.  —  Euripides,  S.  = 
Sophocles,  Sh.  =  Shakespeare.  Names  of  authors  in  small  capitals,  of 
works  in  italics. 


Acamas,  in  Heracleida,  200  ff. 
ACH^US  of  Eretria,  21,  25. 

his  Philoctetes,  25. 

Acharnians,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 
Achilles,  176,  226,  319. 

—  in  M.,  20. 

Myrmidons,  118. 

Nereids,  118. 

Phrygians,  118. 

Weighing  of  Souls,  120. 

E.    Andromache,  220. 

/.  AuL,  285  ff.,  317,  322. 

Telephus,  295-6. 

Homer's  Iliad,  119,  288. 

S.  Philoctetes,  162. 

tomb  of,  in  E.  Hecuba,  216. 

Achilles,  of  Aristarchus,  23. 
Actor,  in  E.  Philoctetes,  296. 
Admetus,  in  E.  Alcestis,  187  ff. 
A  Doll's  House,  see  IBSEN. 
Ad  Quint um  Fratrem,  see  CICERO. 
Adrastus,  3  n. 

—  k.  of  Argos,  in  JE.  Septem,  89. 

—  in  E.  Hypsip.,  305. 

Suppl.,  234  ff. 

Adversus  indoctos,  see  LUCIAN. 

^EANTIDBS,  40. 

.fligeus,  k.  of  Athens,  in  E.  Medea,  193, 
312,  322-3. 

Neophron's  M.,  21. 

/Egisthus  in  JE.  Agamemnon,  79,  100 
ff. 

Choeph.,  106  ff. 

E.  Electra,  253. 

E.  Orestes,  268  ff. 

S.  Electra,  141  ff. 

/Egyptus,  in  M.  Supplices,  84. 
JULIAN,  his  Varia  Historia,  xiv.  40,  p. 

35  n. ;  ii.  8,  p.  243  n. 
.(Eneas,  in  S.  Laocoon,  174. 

Rhesus,  291  ff. 

Mneid,  see  VERGIL. 

^Eolus  in  E.  Mglanippe,  305. 


Aerope,  see  CARCINUS. 

/ESCHINES,  70  and  n.,  83. 

^ESCHYLUS,  4,  5,  6,  10-17,  X9i  20,  23« 
25, 38.  70,  75-6,  82,  84  ff.,  173,  i?7, 
179,  180, 182,  192,  249, 275,  276  n., 
284,  293,  296,  297,  309,  311, 

325,  357- 

—  a  ballet-master,  78. 

—  and  At6,  129. 

—  —  Chthonian  religion,  130. 
Conscience,  130. 

Euripides,  121,  315-7,  etc. 

Fate,  125,  130. 

Homer,  118. 

—  —  Olympians,  130. 
Zeus,  213. 

—  as  dramatist,  125  ff. 
literary  artist,  120-5. 

—  creator  of  tragic  diction,  122. 

—  death,  n. 

—  desk,  34. 

—  epitaph,  10  n. 

—  general  appreciation  of,  120  ff. 

—  grandeur  of  language,  121. 

—  his  interest  in  politics,  128  and  n. 

—  in  Horace  Ars.  Poet.,  56. 

—  invented  dress  of  tragic  actors,  69. 

—  metaphors,  123. 

—  metre,  334. 

—  picturesqueness  in  characterisation, 

language  and  structure,  123-8. 

—  religious  views,  128. 

—  simplicity  of  structure  and  language, 

122,  126. 

—  Agamemnon,  vi,  16,  55,  62,  64,  71, 

77,  86,  99-106,   109,  no,  126, 
213    and    n.,    245,   317,   338, 

345- 

—  —  beacon-speech  in,  124. 

chariots  and  horses  in,  64. 

chorus  in,  79. 

—  —  eccyclema  in,  66. 
herald  in,  73. 


370 


III.  PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


371 


AESCHYLUS,  Agamemnon,  watchman  in, 

124. 

[11.  partlyor  wholly  quoted,  2, 160- 
83,  184-249,  494-5,  750-7,  975 
sqq.,g88sqq.,  1147,  1434,  1530 
sqq.] 

—  Choephorce,  16,  20,  56,  64,  104,  106- 

10, 126, 142,  253,  258,  270,  279. 

chorus  in,  79. 

•  invocation  of  Ag.'s  shade  in,  74. 

—  —  nurse  in,  124. 
tomb  in,  64. 

[11.,  313  sq.t  451-2,  647,  870-4, 
889,  900,  930,  1075-6.] 

—  Eumenides,  42  n.,  55  n.,  56,  68,  no, 

III-7,  121,  128,  217,  249. 

chorus  in,  76. 

dress  of  Furies  in,  69. 

eccyclema  in,  67. 

jury  in,  70. 

—  —  propompi  in,  71. 

—  —  scene  changes  in,  63. 

shade  of  Clytaemnestra  in,  107  n. 

[11.,  116,  137-8,  283,  398-401, 
517-9,  640-51,  681-710,  747, 
788  sq. ,  886.] 

—  Niobe,  119. 

—  Persce,  8,  9,  10,  18,  38,  47,  64,  86-9, 

123,  125. 

ghost  in,  107  n. 

metre  in,  356. 

only  extant  tragedy  on  non- 
mythological  subject,  87. 

and  Phrynichus'  Phoenissce,  8,  9. 

[11.,  81  sq.,  115,  126  sq.,  346, 
361-2,  395,  480-514.  8l5-J 

—  Prometheus    Vinctus,  57,   65,  91-8, 

109,  124,  125,  128,  244. 
[11.,   12,    15,    89-90,    115,    170, 
350-2,  415-20,  993,  1068.] 

—  Septem  contra  Thebas,  20,  89-91,  95, 

123,  125,  267  n.,  268  n. 
[11.,  375  sqq.,  493-4,  591-4,  689- 
91,  895  Iff.] 

—  Supplices,  7,  12,  76,  77,  84-6,  95, 

121,  123,  124,  126. 

chorus  in,  76. 

[11.,  12,  91-5,  230-1,  418  sqq.,  582 
sqq.,  608,  656,  836-7,  991-4, 
994-1013,  1068.] 

—  Amymone,    85 ;     Bassarce    or    Bas- 

sarides,  117  ;  Cabiri,  119 ; 
Danaides,  85,  128 ;  Daughters  of 
the  Sun,  119;  Edoni,  117;  Egyp- 
tians, 85  ;  Glaucus  of  Potniez,  87 ; 
Laius,  go;  Lycurgea  (trilogy), 
117;  Lycurgus  (satyric  play), 
117;  Men  of  Eleusis,  119;  Men 
of  Persia  (=  Persce),  86;  Myr- 
midons, 118;  Nereides,  118 ; 


Niobe,  119  [Fr.  ap.  Plato  "Rep.  " 
qd.]  ;  CEdipus,  go  ;  Oresteia 
(trilogy),  ii,  85,  92,  95,  98  ff., 
123,  126,  128,  134 ;  Philoctetes, 
119  ;  Phineus,  87 ;  Phrygians,  118 ; 
Prometheus  (satyric  play),  87  and 
n. ;  Prometheus  the  Fire-bringer, 
92-3  ;  Proteus  (sat.  pi.)  98  and  n. ; 
P.  Unbound,  93  ;  Ransom  of  Hec- 
tor, 118 ;  Sphinx  (satyric  pi.),  90  ; 
Thracian  Women,  119  ;  Weighing 
of  Souls,  120  ;  Women  of  Etna, 
10,  119;  Youths,  117;  Women  of 
the  Fawn-skin,  117. 

Mthiopica,  see  HELIODORUS. 

jEthra,  in  E.  Supplices,  234  ff. 

Agamemnon,  76,  254. 

—  in  JE.  Again.,  89  ff.,  125. 

Myrmidons,  118. 

E.  Hecuba,  216  ff. 

/.  Aul.,  285  ff. 

Orestes,  270. 

Telephus,  295-6. 

Troades,  243  ff. 

S.  Ajax,  132  ff. 

—  palace  of,  in  S.  Electra,  141  ff. 

—  shade  of,  invoked  in  M.  Choeph.,  74, 

107  and  n.  and  no. 

—  tent  of,  52. 

—  torab  of,  64,  106  (Choeph.),  253  (E. 

EL). 

Agamemnon,  see  JS,. 
AQATHON  of  Athens,  21,  25-9,  50  n., 

55,  72,  77,  315. 

—  Antheus,  26. 

—  Anthos,  26. 

—  Fall  of  Troy,  27. 

—  Flower,  26. 

Agave,  in  E.  Bacchte,  277  ff. 
Agen,  satyric  drama,  38-9. 
Ajax,  62. 

—  death  of,  on  stage,  46. 

—  in  S.  Ajax,  132  ff.,  177-8,  180,  185. 
Ajax,  see  SOPHOCLBS. 

Alcestis,  in  E.  Ale.,  186  ff.' 

—  death  of,  on  stage,  46. 

Alcestis,    see     EURIPIDES    and    PHRY- 
NICHUS. 

Alcibiades,  82,  167,  236,  268  n. 
Alcmaeon,  46. 

—  jn  ASTYDAMAS,  31. 

Alcmaon,  etc.,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Alcmena,  231 ;  in  E.  Heracleidce,  200 

ff. 

Alcon,  13. 
Alexander  the   Great,  29,  36,  39,  163, 

3i3- 

tragedian,  39,  40. 

tyrant  of  Pherae,  35,  38. 

Alexander,  see  EURIPIDES. 


372 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Alexandra,  see  LYCOPUKON. 
Alope,  see  CHCERILUS. 
Altgriechische  Literatur,  see  GOETHE. 
Althaea,  in  Phrynichus'  Pleuronia,  7. 
Amphiaraus,   235,   in   M.  Septem,  91, 
124. 

—  in  Carcinus'  Thyestes,  35. 

E.  Hypsipyle,  304. 

Amphiaraus,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Amphion,  in  E.  Antiope,  298. 
Amphitryon,  in  E.  Here.  Fur.,  228  ff. 
Amymone,  see  ^SCHYLUS. 
ANACREON,  337  n. 

ANATOLB  FRANCE,  vi,  326. 

Anaxagoras,  17,  18,  307. 

Andromache,  262  ;  in  E.  Andr.,  225  ff. ; 

E.  Troades,  243  ff. 
Andromache,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Andromeda,  in  E.  Andromeda,  8,  299 

f. 

Andromeda,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Anonymous  Life  of  Sophocles,  15  n. 
Antaeus,  in  Phrynichus'  Antceus,  7. 
Antaus,  see  PHRYNICHUS. 
Antheus,  see  AGATHON. 
Anthos,  see  AGATHON. 
Antigone,  64 ;  in  M.  Septem,  90-1 ;  in 

E.  Phoen.,  264  ff. ;  in  S.  Antigone, 

137  ff.,  177-8 ;  in  (E.  Col.,  168  ff., 

182. 

Antigone,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Antiiochus,  in  JE.  Myrmidons,  118. 
Antiope,  in  E.  Antiope,  298. 
Antiope,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Aphrodite,  85,  in   JE.  Danaides,    128; 

in  E.  Helena,  259 ;  in  Hippol.,  205 

ff. ;  in  /.  Aul.,  285. 
Apollo,  67,  69. 

—  his  temple  at  Delphi,  63. 

—  in    JE.    Bassarids,    117;     Choeph., 

107-8;   Eumen.,  85,  in  ff.,  129; 

in  E.  Alcestis,  186  ff. ;  Androma., 

220   ff.,    226-7 ;    El.,   252   ff. ;    I. 

Taur.,  247  ;  Orestes,  268  ff. ;  in  S. 

Ichneutee,  2,  175. 
APULEIUS,  320. 
Archelaus,  actor,  298. 

—  k.  of  Macedonia,  18,  26. 
Archemorus,  in  E.  Hypsip.,  304  and  n. 
Ares,  252  ;  in  E.  Phcen.,  264. 

Ariel's  song,  354. 
Arion,  i,  3,  4,  5. 
ARISTARCHUS  of  Tegea,  21-3. 

—  Achilles,  23. 

—  Asclepius,  22. 
ARISTEAS,  90. 
Aristides,  91,  128  n. 
Aristides,  see  PLUTARCH. 
ARISTOPHANES,  9,  14,  60,  226  n.,  295, 

322. 


ARISTOPHANES,  and  M.,  118,  121-2. 

E.,    17    ff.,   262,    312    ff.,    318, 

320. 

—  Acharnians,  54  n.,  67,  296  [1.,  732]. 

—  Birds,  8   and   n.,    174   and   n.,   175 

[11.  100  sqq.,  748-51]. 

—  Clouds,    65,    67,    215    n.    [11.,    225, 

1165  sq.]. 

—  Ecclesiazusez ,  54  n.  [1.  1151]. 

—  Fragments   (Meineke,  ii.,    p.   1177), 

119  and  n. 

—  Frogs,  7,  ii  n.,  19-20,  24  and  n.,  27, 

72  and  n.,  74  and  n.,  80,  90,  118  n., 

121,  122,  124,  126  and  n.,  215  and 

nn.,  298,  304  n.,  311-2  n. 

[II.  53,  82,  84,  101,  297,  303,  689, 

850,  886,  908  sqq. ,  911-3,  924-5, 

932,  939  sqq.,  948  sqq.,  954-8, 

959,  1021,  1041,  1043  s?.,  1119 

sqq.,  1122,    1198-1247,   1261-95, 

1304-8,    1309-63,    1314,     1348, 

1378-1410,  1467.] 

—  Knights,  54  n.,  67  [11.  148,  1249], 

—  Peace,  24,  65,  83,  297  [1.  835]. 

—  Thesmophoriazusa,  26,  27,  28   and 

nn.,  72  and  n.,  215,  and  nn.,  262, 
296,  298  [11.  54  sqq.,  100,  130 
sqq.,  275-6,  497,  547]. 

—  Wasps,  8  and  n.,  54  n.,  57  [11.  220, 

1342,  1514]. 

—  see  Parody. 

ARISTOTLE,  vi,  3,  25,  54 ;  analysis  of 
Features  of  Tragedy,  44-8. 

—  and   Macbeth,  42  ;    and    E.  Medea, 

322  ;  and  the  Three  Unities,  42  n. 

—  and    catharsis,   43 ;    definitions    (of 

Tragedy,  43 ;  of  other  things, 
47) ;  mentions  Carcinus,  35  ;  on 
Agathon's  Peripeteia,  27 ;  on 
Eurip.,  312  ff.  ;  on  origin  of 
Tragedy,  2  n. ;  on  S.  CE.  Tyr., 
46-8 ;  standpoint  of  his  criticism, 
42;  taught  and  quoted  Theo- 
dectes,  36  ;  value  of  his  evidence, 
42. 

—  Didascalia    or    Dramatic    Produc- 

tions, 62. 

—  Ethics,  ii  n.  [iiiia,  11506,  10],  83 

and  n.  [X,  1175  B]. 

—  Poetic,  3    n.,  5,   ii    n.,   15    and  n., 

26  and  n.,  27  n.,  31  and  n.,  32, 
41  ff.,  77  and  n.,  148,  151  and  n., 
174  n.,  196  and  n.,  289  and  n., 
297  n-i  3°7  n-»  and 308  n.,  312  and 
n. ;  [1447  B — 1462  B  qd.  passim]. 

—  Rhetoric,  32  and  n.,  61  and  n.,  139 

and  n.  [II,  14006,  14176  ;  III,  i., 
Ill,  xii.  2,  xvi.  9], 

—  (Hypomnemata),  22  and  n. 
ARISTOXENUS,  on  Cola,  351. 


III.   PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


373 


ARNOLD,    MATTHEW,    355-6;    Merope, 

309;  Scholar-Gipsy,  323-4,  3^6. 
Ars  Poetica,  see  HORACE. 
Artemis,  in  E.  Hippol.,  205,  284  n. ;  /. 

Aul.,  285  ff. ;  I.  Taur.,  247  ff. 
Asclepius,  13. 

Asclepius,  see  ARISTARCHUS. 
Astyanax,  in  E.  Troades,  243  ff. 
ASTYDAMAS  (father  and  son),  31,  59. 
—  Hector,  31;  Parthenopceus,^i. 
Astyoche,  in  S.  Eurypylus,  176. 
Athena,  in  JE.  Eumen.,  in  ff.,  317  ;  E. 

Andromeda,  301  ;  Heracleida,  201  ; 

Ion,   236   ff.  ;    I.    Taur.,   247   ff.  ; 

Philoct.,    297 ;     Rhesus,    291    ff. ; 

SuppL,  234  ff. ;   Troad.,  243  ff;  ;  in 

S.  Ajax,  132  ff. 

Athena's  temple,  in  Eumen.,  63. 
ATHEWEUS,  25  and  n.,  32  and  n.,  34  n., 

39  n.,  175  [III,  98  D;  X,  451  C; 

XIII,  595  F;  fragm.  10]. 
Atlas,    in   &.   Prom.    V.,    128;    in    E. 

Hippol.,  208. 

Atossa,  in  JE.  Persa,  86  n.,  87. 
Atreidje,  palace  of,  in  Again.,  124  ;  Atr. 

in  S.  Ajax,  136. 
Atreus,  house  of,  in   S.    Electra,  143  ; 

and  129. 
Attic  Theatre,  see  HAIGH. 

-  Tragedy,  see  HAIGH. 
AULUS  GKLLIUS,  on  E.,  17  and  n.  [XV, 

20]. 


Bacchce,  see  EURIPIDES. 

—  Riddle  of  the,  see  NORWOOD. 

Bacchantes,  see  EURIPIDES. 

Bacchus,  in  Bac.,  277  ff. 

BACCHYLIDES,  24. 

BADHAM  on  Helena,  263  n. 

Bassanios,  73. 

Bassarce,  -rides,  see  ^SCHYLUS. 

Bellerophon,  65;   in  E.  Seller.,  297. 

Bellerophon,  see  EURIPIDES. 

BENTLEY,  23  n. 

BERNARD  SHAW,  see  SHAW. 

BERNHARDY,  Grundriss  der  griech.  Lit- 

teratur,    40  n.,    163    n.  [II,  ii.  p. 

72  and  p.  370],   253  n.  [II,  ii.,  p. 

490]. 

Bia,  a  mute  in  JE.  Prom.  V.,  92  n.,  94. 
BION,  son  of  JE.,  ii. 
Birds,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 
BOCKH,  on  Rhesus,  294  n. 
Boreas,  in  S.  Orithyia,  175. 
Boucher,  Fr.  painter,  34. 
BRIGHT,  JOHN,  348. 
BROOKS,  RUPERT,  358. 
BROWNING,  Mrs.,  on  E.,  324  n. 
BUNYAN,  23. 


BUTCHER'S   translation  of  AR.  Poetic, 

4  n.,  26  n.,  44  n.,  77. 
BYRON,  on  d.  of  Kirk  White,  118  and  n. 


Cabiri,  see  AESCHYLUS. 
Cadmus,  in  E.  Bacchce,  277  ff. 

Phcen.,  264. 

CALLIMACHUS,  40. 
Capaneus,  in  E.  Supplices,  235. 
Captain  Osborne,  in  Vanity  Fair,  319. 
Capture  of  Miletus,  see  PHRYNICHUS. 
CARCINUS,  34-6,  41 ;  Aerope,  35  ;  Medea, 

35  ;  CEdiptts,  35  ;  Thyestes,  35. 
CARROT,  E.  F.,  The  Theory  of  Beauty 

[p.  156],  320  and  n. 
Cassandra,  66  ;   in  M.  Agam.,  99   ff., 

245  ;  in  E.  Troad.,  243  ff. 
Cassiopeia,  in  E.  Andromeda,  299. 
Castor,  in  E.  Electra,  252  n.,  etc.;  in 

Helena,  258  n.,  259  ff. 
Catasterismoi,  see  ERATOSTHENES. 
Celebrants   of   the    Thesmophoria,    see 

ARISTOPHANES  Thesmophoriazusez. 
Centaur,  see  CH^REMON. 
Cephalus,  in  Hippol.,  212. 
Cepheus,  in  Andromeda,  299  f. 
Cerberus,  in  Here.  Fur.,  228  ff. 
Cercyon,  in  Carcinus'  Alope,  35. 
CH^REMON,   32  ff.,   41 ;    Centaur,  32 ; 

Thyestes,  32  ;  (Eneus,  33. 
Chevron,  see  PHERECRATES. 
Cherry  Orchard,  see  TCHEKOV. 
Children  of  Heracles,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Chiron,  the  Centaur,  98. 
Choephorce,  see  M. 
CHOSRILUS,   5,   6;    Alope,  6;    Satyric 

drama,  5. 

Christ  and  Prometheus,  97. 
CHRIST,    Geschichte    der   griech.  Litt. 

[p.  210,  etc.],  163  n.,  294  n. 
Christus  Patiens,  41. 
CHRYSOSTOM,  Dio,  see  D.C. 
Chrysothemis,  in    S.    Electra,   141   ff., 

152,  178-9. 
GIBBER,  9. 
CICERO,   Ad    Q.  Fratrem   [II,  xv.  3], 

174  and  n. ;  Orator  [51],  36* 
Cimon,  23  ;  and  Cimon,  see  PLUTARCH. 
Clarendon  (Earl  of),  vi. 
Cleanthes,  the  philosopher,  39. 
Cleisthenes,  3  n. 
Cleon,  325. 

Clito,  mother  of  E.,  17. 
Clouds,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 
Clymene,  in  E.  Phaethon,  301  ff. 
Clytaemnestra,  46,  66,  70 ;    and  Lady 

Macbeth,     104  ;     C.'s     ghost,     in 

JE.    Eumen.,    in    ff.  ;    tomb,    in 

E.  Orestes,  269; 


374 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Clytaemnestra,  in   JE.  Agam.,  73   and 

n.,  99  ff.  ;  Choeph.,  73  and  n., 

106  ff.,  126. 
E.  Andromache,  220  ;  £/.,  252  ff.  ; 

/.  Aul.,  285  ff.,   322;   Orest., 

268  ff. 
in  S.  EL,  141  ff. 

CONGREVE,  36,  322. 

Constance,  in  Sh.  K.J.,  234. 
Copreus,  in  E.  Heracleidce  and  Homer 

//.,  xv.  639  ;  200  and  n. 
Cordelia,  in  Sh.  Lear,  137. 
Corporal  Mulvaney,  319. 
Correggio,  33. 

CRATES,  critic  and  philos.,  37,  294. 
CRATINUS,  19  n. 
Cratos,  in  M.  Pr.  V.  92  ff. 
Creon,  in  E.  Medea,  192  ff.,  317 ;  Phcen., 

264  ff. ;  Suppl.,  235. 
S.  Antigone,  137  ff.,  177  n.  ;  (E. 

Col.,    168    ff.,    217;   (E.    T., 

145  ff.,  178. 

Cresphontes,  in  E.  Cresph.,  307. 
Cresphontes,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Cretans,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Cretan  Women,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Cretan  Zeus,  310. 

Creusa,  in  E.  Ion,  236  ff.,  303,  318,  322. 
CRITIAS,    29;  his  Pirithous,  29;  Sisy- 
phus, 29. 

CROISET,  Histoire  de  la  Litter.  Grecque 
[iii.  49],  9  n.,  25  n.  [Hi.  400  n.], 
in  n. 

—  his  arrangement  of  E.  Ale.,  186  n. ; 

H.   Fur.,   228  n. ;    Hippol.,    205 

n ;  I.  Aul.,  285  n. ;  Or.,  268  n. ; 

Phcen.,  264  n. ;  of  S.  Antig.,  136 

n. ;  (E.  Col.,  167  n. 
Cyclops,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Cyllene,   the  nymph,  in   S.   Ichneutcz, 

176. 

Cynegirus,  bro.  of  JE.,  10. 
Cypris,  in  E.  Helena,  261. 

Daedalus,  126. 

Danae,  see  EURIPIDES. 

Danaidae,  272. 

Danaid.es,  see  ^SCHYLUS. 

Danaids,  76. 

Danaus,  in  JE.  Suppl.,  84  ff. 

—  his  daughters,  76. 
Daphnis,  see  SOSITHEUS. 

Darius,  7;  in  JE.  Persa,  87-9  ;  Darius's 

tomb,  64. 

Das  griech.  Theater,  see  D6RPFRLD. 
Daughters  of  Danaus,  see  PHRYNICHUS. 

the  Sun,  see  .^SCHYLUS. 

DAVENANT,  9. 

De  Falsa  Legation e,  see  DEMOSTHENES. 

De  Gloria  Atheniensium,  see  PLUTARCH. 


Deianira,  in  S.  Trachinia,  154  ff.,  178- 

9,  180. 
DEKKER   and  MASSINQER,  The  Virgin 

Martyr,  137. 
Demeter,  in  CARCINUS,  35. 

E.  Helena,  259-60. 

S.  Triptolemus,  173. 

De  Metris,  see  PLOTIUS. 
Demophon,  in  E.  Heracleida,  200  ff. 
DEMOSTHENES,  31,  82,  83  n.,  182. 

—  De  Falsa  Legatione  [§  337],  83  n. 

—  In  Meidiam,  82  ;  Olynthiacs  [I,  5], 

334  "• 

De  Profectu  in  Virtute,  see  PLUTARCH 
De  Sublimitate,  see  "  LONQINUS  ". 
Detectives,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Dexion,  13. 

Dicaeopolis,  in  A.  Acharn.,  67,  296. 
Dictys,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Didascalice,  see  ARISTOTLE. 
DIDYMUS,  the  critic,  304  n. 
Die  Eurhythmie  in  den  Chorgtsdngen  der 

Griechen,  see  SCHMIDT. 
DINDORF,  235  n. 
Dinner-party,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Dio  CHRYSOSTOM,  Oration,  52,  120  and 

n.,  165-6  and  n.,  296-7. 
"  DIOGENES  LAERTIUS,"  5,  25,  39  n. 

[ii.  133,  vii.  173], 
DIOOENES,  the  philosopher,  37. 
Diomedes,  in  E.  Alcestis,  187  ;  Philoct., 

166,  296 ;  Rhesus,  291  ff. 

DlONYSIADES,  40. 

DIONYSIUS  of  Halicarnassus,  306. 

—  the  Elder,  34  ;  his  Hector's  Ransom, 

34- 

Younger,  35. 

Dionysus,  i,  2  and  n.,  3  n,  4,  49. 

—  altar  of,  in  theatre,  51. 

—  artists  of,  75. 

—  Eleuthereus,  49. 
priest  of,  80. 

—  ivy  sacred  to,  61-2. 

—  Philiscus,   priest  of,  at  Alexandria, 

40. 

—  ritual  of,  81  n. 

—  theatre  of,  Athens,  49,  56. 

—  in  Progs,  80  n.,  124,  298,  316. 

Baccha,  73,  277  ff. 

Hypsip,  304. 

Antigone,  141. 

(E.  Col.,  170. 

Lycurgea,  117. 

Dioscuri,  257 ;  in  Helena,  260;  E.  Ant- 

iope,  298. 
Doctor,    see    Grenfell,    Hayley,   Hunt, 

Mackail,  Stockman,  Verrall. 
Doctor's  Dilemma,  see  SHAW. 
Dogberry,  199. 
Dolon,  in  Rhesus,  291  ff. 


III.   PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


375 


Don  Carlos,  see  SCHILLBR. 
Doris,  w.  of  Dionysius  the  elder,  34. 
Dorothea,  in  Virgin  Martyr,  137. 
DORPFELD,   Das    griechische    Theater, 
53  ff. 

—  in  Bull.  Corr.  Hell.  [1896,  p.   577 

*??•]»  59  "• 
DOSTOEVSKY,  319;   The  Possessed,  ch. 

i.,  p.  322. 
Dramatic  Productions,  see  ARISTOTLE. 

Ecclesiazusce,see  ARISTOPHANES. 
Echo,  in  E.  Andromeda,  299. 

—  nymph,  S.  Philoct.,  166. 
Edoni,  of  Thrace,  117. 
Edoni,  see  ^ESCHYLUS. 
Egyptians  see  /ESCHYLUS. 

—  see  PHRYNICHUS. 
Eido,  in  E.  Helena,  263. 
Einleitung,  etc.,  see  WILAMOWITZ-M. 
Electra,  in  M.  Choeph.,  106  ff. 
E.  El.,  252  ff. 

Orest.,  73,  79,  268  ff.,  319. 

—  S.  El.,  141  ff.,  177,  178,  181-2. 

Electra,  see  EURIP.  and  SOPH. 

ELIOT,  GEORGE,  Middlemarch,  334  n. 

Empedocles,  127. 

ENNIUS,  23,  333  n. 

"  Entertainer,"  13. 

Eos,  in  M.  W.  of  Souls,  120. 

Epaphus,  in  M.  Prom.  V.,  94. 

Ephialtes,  116. 

Epidemiai,  see  ION. 

Epodes,  see  HORACE. 

ERATOSTHENES,  Catasterismoi  [19], 
301  n. 

Eratosthenes,  see  LYSIAS. 

Erechtheus,  in  E.  Erech.,  297. 

Erechtheus,  see  EURIPIDES  and  SWIN- 
BURNE. 

Erinys,  no. 

Eriphyle,  46. 

Eros,  in  E.  Andromeda,  300. 

Plato's  Symposium,  28  n. 

Eschyle,  see  PAT  IN. 

Essays  on  Two  Moderns,  see  SALTER. 

Eteocles,  76  ;  in  M.  Septem,  89  ff.,  129  ; 
in  E.  Phten.,  264  ft. 

Ethics,  see  ARISTOTLE. 

EUBULUS,  comedian,  34. 

EUCLID,  the  geometer,  40. 

Eumelos,  in  E.  Alcestis,  71,  186  n. 

Eumenides,  at  Colonus,  172. 

Eumenides,  see  ^SCHYLUS. 

EUPHORION,  10,  n,  18,  192,  296. 

EUPHRONIUS,  40. 

Euripidean  Rhesus,  etc.,  see  PORTER. 

EURIPIDES,  vi,  13-15,  17-23,  26-7,  31-2, 
67,  72,  83,  128,  177,  180,  182,  186 
ff-i  3575  and  Agathon,  28;  and 


legends,  314-5 ;  and  modern  Eng- 
land, 324 ;  and  Shaw,  320-1 ;  and 
Theodectes,  37 ;  as  schoolbook, 
21,  215  ;  blamed  by  Ar.,  42 ;  copied 
by  Sosiphanes,  41 ;  in  later  Gk. 
times,  21,  320;  inventor  of  prose- 
drama,  323 ;  relics  of,  34  ;  text  of, 

.41. 

Euripides'  criticism  of  JE.,  20,  121,  126 
andn. ;  agnosticism,  318;  death, 
277 ;  feeling  for  beauty,  320 ; 
genius  and  personality,  310  ff. ; 
handling  of  traditional  material, 
46  ;  heroes  in  rags,  69  ;  library, 
17 ;  metre,  334-5  ;  originality  in 
portraiture,  319;  prologos,  47; 
sophistry,  317 ;  technique,  19-21. 

—  and  his  Age,  see  MURRAY. 

—  der  Dichter,  etc.,  see  NESTLE. 

—  '  Apology,  see  VERRALL. 

—  in  a  Hymn,  see  VERRALL. 

—  restitutus,  see  HARTUNQ. 

—  the  Rationalist,  see  VERRALL. 

—  Alcestis,  7,  17  n.,  21,  55  n.,  71,  76, 

159  n.,  186-92,  and  294-5  [11. 
29,  32.  34.  37,  58,  158-84,  179, 
280-325,  763-4,  904  sqq.,  1159- 

63L 

—  Alcmeeon  at  Corinth,  285-6. 
Psophis,  185,  295. 

—  Alexander,  243. 

—  Andromache,  21,  65,  77,  187  n., 

219-28,  313  n.,  318,  328,  330 
[11.  147-80,  164,  166,  229  sq.,  241, 
260,  445-63,  464-94,  588-9,  595" 
601,  632  sqq.,  639,  708  sqq.,  732 
sqq.,  752  sqq.,  804,  929-53,  964, 
1002  sqq.,  1147  sqq.,  1239  sqq.]. 

—  Andromeda,  298-301,  303,  321. 

—  Antiope,  298. 

—  Bacchce,  17,   68-70,   73,  77  and  n., 

187  n.,  277-87,  304  ".,  313  "M  321, 
326,  356. 

—  [Bacchantes  see  last].     [11.    12,    64 

sqq.,  233-4,  625,   632-3,  677-774, 

703.  732-51,  1325  *?•] 

—  Bellerophon,  284   n.,   297  [Fragm., 

294-7]. 

—  [Children  of  Heracles,  see  Herac- 

leidce]. 

—  Cresphontes,  307-9. 

—  Cretans,  310. 

—  Cretan  Women,  295. 

—  Cyclops   (sat.),  2,  191,  289-91,  362 

[II.  316-41,  361  sqq.,    460-3,  549, 

672-5-] 

—  Danae,  309. 

—  Dictys,  192,  296. 

—  Electra,  20,  55  n.,  64,  65,  77,  142-3, 

252-8,  313  n.  [11.  4  sqq.,  9-10,  25 


376 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


sqq.,  54,  6o-l,  77-8,  255  sqq.,  362 
sqq-,  354-5.  367  sqq.,  652-60,  737- 
45,  1041-3,  1142-6,  124559.,  1294, 
1296-7,  1301-7,  1327  sqq.,  1347- 
56]. 
Euripides,  Erechtheus,  297-8. 

—  Fragmenta   Adespota,  324  n.    [nos. 

894,  916]. 

—  Harvesters  (sat.),  192,  296. 

—  Hecuba,  21,  76,  215-9,  265,  268  [11. 

68  sqq.,  174  sq.,  230,  342-78,  421, 
428-30,  462,  518-82,  531-3,  585 
sqq.,  592-603,  629  sqq. ,  671,  702 
sqq.,  779  sq.,  796  sq.,  799  sqq., 
806-8,  814-9,  894-7,  905  sqq., 
953-67,1187-94,  1287  sq.]. 

—  Helena,  55    n.,  76,  160  n.,  187  n., 

258-64,  318  n.,  322  [11.  20-1,  138 
sqq.,  157,  183  sqq.,  205  sqq.,  256-9, 
284-5,  355-6,  489  sqq.,  491,  567, 
616,  629,  744-60,  832,  878  sqq., 
1013-6,  1048,  1050-2,  1107  sqq., 
1140-3,  1301  sqq.]. 

—  Heracleidce,  76,  200-5,  288  [U-  45'7> 

240  sq.,  513,  540,  563,  597  sqq., 
625,  629  sq.,  638,  665,  819-22, 
847,  869  sqq.,  910  sqq. ,  990, 
997-9,  1020-5,  1035-7,  1049-52]. 

—  Hercules   Furens,   55  n.,    65,    189, 

203  n.,  228-34,  31?.  326  [11.  65-6, 
76,  70-9,  119,  140-235,  151-64,  153 
sq.,  339  sqq.,  460-89,  485-9,  562- 

82,  585-94,  798  sqq.,  857,  601  sqq., 
673  sqq.,  1002-6,  1222,  1255-1310, 
1269  sqq.,  1340-93,  1340-6]. 

—  Hippolytus,  16,  21,  56,  71,  77,  205- 

15.  317-8,  320,  326  [H.  29-33,  73- 
87,  121-5,  135-40,  151-4,  191-7, 
208-31,  281,  328,  337  sqq.,  384, 
373-430,  415  sqq.,  439-61,  474  sq., 
493-6,  490  sq.,  503-6,  507  sq.,  512, 
516,  565,  612,  616-68,  689-92,  728- 
31,  732-51,  828-9,  831-3,  960  sq., 
967-70,  1034  sq. ,  1035,  1060-3, 
1076  sq.,  1082-3,  1375  sq.,  1379- 

83,  1423-30]. 

—  Hippolytus  Veiled,  205  n. 
-  Hypsipyle,  304-5. 

—  Ino,  309. 

—  Ion,  21  and  n.,  55  n.,  70,  76,  79,  igi, 

236-43,  251,  276,  298,  318,  322 
[11.  125-7,  265-8,  308,  313,  369 
sqq.,  436-51,  542,  548,  550  sqq., 
585  sqq.,  589  sqq.,  727,  768  sqq., 
859  sqq.,  916,  952,  1029  sqq.,  1039, 
I2H-6,  1215  sqq.,  1312  sqq.,  1324, 
*397  sqq.,  1419,  1424,  1468  sq., 
1520-7,  1537  sq.,  1546  sqq.,  1550, 
1565,  1595]. 


Euripides,  Iphigenia  among  the  Tauri- 
ans,  see  I  ph.  in  Tauris. 

at  Aulis,  64,  70,  77,  285-9,  304, 

312,  313  n.,  317,  322,  334  n. 
[11.  320,  407,  414,  882,  919-74, 
1366  sq.}. 

in  Tauris,  31,  45,  73,  76,  247-52, 

260,  321  [11.  73,  77,  123-5, 
275,  281  sqq.,  380  sqq.,  626, 
677,  JIT.  sqq.,  7*9  sq.,  739  sq., 
823-6,  933,  939  sqq.,  945,  961 
sqq.,  965  sq.,  968  sqq.,  976  sqq., 
980,  985  sq.,  1038-40,  1046, 
1205,  1232,  1434]. 

—  Medea,  18,  21  and   n.,  22   and  n., 

35,  4<5,  55,  77.  96,  187  n.,  191, 192- 
9,  201,  208,  279,  296-7,  317,  321- 
33  [H.  i,  230-51,  309  sq.,  349,  364, 
389  sqq.,  450,  454,  472,  635,  801 
sq.,  824-45,  93°  sq.,  944  sq.,  1021- 
80,  1081-1115,  1231-5,  1236-50, 
1367,  1375-7,  1381-3]- 

—  Melanippe,   305    n. ;   M.  in  Prison, 

305  n. 
the  Wise,  83,  305-7,  313  n. 

—  Orestes,  17  n.,  21,  64,  70,  72,  73,  74, 

77,  79,  215-6  n.,  251,  265,  268-77, 
288,  315,  318,  319  and  n.,  323, 
334  [11-  r-3.  28  sqq.,  37  sqq.,  72- 
92,  71-111,  78  sq.,  loi-n,  121, 
126  sqq.,  174  sqq.,  285  sqq.,  310, 
360  sqq.,  362,  365,  367,  371  sqq., 
373,  380  sqq.,  386,  388,  390,  395- 
8,  417,  420,  423,  481  sqq.,  491- 
525,502,  544*??-.  55°.  551,568,  615 
sqq.,  634,  640  sq.,  658-61,  674, 

740,  743,  745,  747.  749,  75^,  797, 
872,  892,  894,  932  sqq.,  960  sqq., 
982  sqq.,  983,  1204  sqq.,  1323,  1493 

sqq-,  1535-9, 1547  sqq.,  r576, 1662- 

3,  1666  sqq.]. 

—  Palamedes,  243. 

—  Peliades,  17. 

—  Phaethon,  56,  300,  321. 

—  Philoctetes,  192,  296-7. 

—  Phoenician  Women  or  Phaenissfp,  21, 

64,  77.  91,  215-6  n.,  264-8  [11.  88- 
201,  114  sqq.,  302  sq. ,  316,  528 
sqq.,  590  s^.,  6)g,  612,  751  sq., 
1090-1199,  1104-40,  1182  sq., 
1223-82,  1233  sq.,  1259  sqq.,  1265- 
6,  1524  sq.,  1758  sq.]. 

—  Polyidus,  309. 

—  Rhesus,  21,  23  n.,  76,  186  n.,  igi, 

291-5'  313  n-,  321  [H.  319-23,  422- 
53,  474-84,  528,  546-56,  618,  962- 

73,  971]- 

—  Sisyphus  (satyric  play),  243. 


III.   PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


377 


Euripides,  Suppliant  Women  or  Sup- 
plices,  20,  65,  77  and  n.,  160  n., 
234-6  [II.  195-218,  297-331,  403-56, 
518-44,  567,  846-54,  1054-6]. 

—  Telephus,  185,  295-6. 

-  The  Crowned   Hippolytus,   205   n., 

214  ;  The  Veiled  H.,  214. 

-  Troades,  or  Trojan  Women,  21,  76, 

243-6,  248,  262,  308,  318  and  n., 
321  [11.  67  sq.,  220  sqq.,  469  sqq., 
703  sqq.,  710,  738,  764,  841  sqq., 
884  sqq.,  1060  sqq.,  1158  sqq.,  1204 
sqq.,  1240  sqq.]. 

—  Women  of  Crete,  186. 
—  son  of  E.,  285-6. 

Europa,  175  n. 

Eurydice,  in  S.  Antigone,  137  ff. 

E.  Hypsipyle,  304. 

Eurypylus  in  S.  Eurypylus,  176  and  n. 
Eurypylus,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Eurysaces,  in  S.  Ajax,  71. 
Eurystheus,  in  E.  Heracleidtz,  200  ff. 
Eurytus,  in  S.  Track.,  154  ff. 
Evadne,  65  ;  in  E.  Suppl.,  234  ff. 

Fall  of  Troy,  see  AGATHON. 

Faust,  in  MARLOWE,  185. 

FLAUBERT,      La      Tentation     de     S. 

Antoine,  326. 
FLETCHER,  317. 
Flower,  see  AGATHON. 
Fortinbras,  in  Hamlet,  152  n. 
Founding  of  Chios,  see  ION. 
Four  Plays  of  Euripides,  see  VERRALL. 
Fragmenta  Comic.  Grczc.,  see  MEINEKE. 
FRANCE,  ANATOLE,  see  A.  F. 
Frederick  the  Great,  34. 
Frenzy,  in  E.  Here.  Fur.,  229  ff. 

Gabler,  Hedda,  see  H.  G. 
Galatea,  statue  of,  126. 
GALSWORTHY,  Justice,  37. 
Garrick  and  Macbeth,  70. 
GELLIUS,  AULUS,  see  A.  G. 
Geschichte  der  griechischen  Litteratur, 

see  CHRIST. 

GILBERT  MURRAY,  see  MURRAY. 
Giotto,  33. 

Glauce,  in  E.  Medea,  192  ff. 
Glaucus,  8  n. ;  in  E.  Or.,  275  and  n. 
Glaucus,  etc.,  see  ^ESCHYLUS. 
GOETHE,  AltgriechischeLiteratur(Wks., 

V.    127,    ed.    1837),    301    n-i    and 

302  and  n. 
Gorgias,  28,  218. 
GRANT  ALLEN,  20  n. 
Great  Play,  see  ION. 
Gregers  Werle,  317. 
GREGORY  OF  NAZIANZUS,  41. 


Grenfell,  Dr.,  18. 

Greuze,  34. 

Griechische    Litteraturgeschichte,     tee 

MULLER-HEITZ. 
Growth  and  Influence  of  Clatsical  Greek 

Poetry,  see  JEBB. 
Grundriss  der  griechischen  Litteratur, 

see  BERNHARDY. 

HADLEY,  introdn.  to  Hecuba  [pp.  ix.-xii.], 
217  n. 

Hadrian,  41. 

Hsemon,  in  E.  Phcen.,  264  ;  in  S.  Anti- 
gone, 137  ff. 

HAGGARD,  SIR  H.  RIDER,  248. 

Hagnon,  295. 

HAIGH,  Attic  Tragedy,  16,  53  ff.,  55 
nn.,  59  n.,  65  and  n.,  73  n.,  75  n., 
80,  81  n. 

—  Tragic  Drama  of  the  Greeks,  i  n., 
6  n.,  15,  25  n.,  124  and  n. 

Hamlet,  72,  136,  217. 

Hamlet,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 

HANKIN,  ST.  JOHN,  28. 

Harpalus,  39. 

HARTUNG,  Euripides  Restitutus,  299  n. 
301  n.,  305  n.,  307. 

Harvesters,  ste  E. 

HAYLEY,  Dr.,  on  E.  Alcestis,  187  n., 
191  n. 

Hebe,  in  E.  Heracleida,  201-2. 

Hebrews  [xii.  i],  349. 

Hector,  in  M.  Myrmidons,  and 
Phrygians,  118 ;  Philoct.,  120; 
in  E.  Rhesus,  291  ff. 

Hector,  see  ASTYDAMAS. 

Hector's  Ransom,  see  DIONYSIUS  THE 
ELDER  and  ^ESCHYLUS. 

Hecuba,  in  E.  Hec.,  215  ff. ;  in  Troades, 
243,  262,  308,  318. 

Hecuba,  see  EURIPIDES. 

Hedda  Gabler,  317. 

Hegel,  320. 

HegelocHus,  the  actor,  74. 

HEITZ-MULLER,  Griechische  Litteratur- 
geschichte [ii.  88],  92  n. 

Helen,  254;  in  M.  Agam.,  99;  in  E. 
Androma.,  224;  Helena,  258  n., 
259  ff.,  322 ;  Or.,  268  ff.,  318,  323  ; 
in  Troad.,  243  n.,  244. 

Helena,  see  E. 

Helenus,  in  E.  Androma.,  221. 

Heliodorus,  novelist;  JEthiopica,  299. 

Helios,  in  E.  Phaethon,  301  ff. 

Hellenica,  see  XENOPHON. 

Helmer,  Thorvald,  in  Ibsen's  A  Doll's 
House,  189. 

Henry  VI,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 

Hephaestus,  in  JE.  Nereids,  118. 

Prom.  V.,  92  ff. 


378 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Hera,  94,  231-2  ;  in  E.  Hel.,  259  ;  Hera- 
cleid., 201,  213  n. 

—  Ludovisi,  182. 
Heracleidae,  in  E.  Hel.,  200  ff. 
Heracleida,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Heracles,  in  PHRYNICHUS"  Antaus. 
69,  88,  96  and  98;  in   E.   Ale., 

186  ff.  ;  in  Heracleid.,  200  ff. ; 
in  H.  Fur.,  228  ff . ;  in  S. 
Philoct.,  120, 161  ff.  ;  Trackin., 
154  ff.,  180. 

Pirithous,  29. 

Hercules  Furens,  see  EURIPIDES. 
HERMANN  on  Rhesus,  294  n. 
Hermathena  [xvii.  348-80],  295. 
Hermes,  67;  in  XL.  Bum.,  in    ff.  ;  in 
Prom.    V.,   95,    124 ;   in    Homer, 
119  ;  in    E.   Ion.,   236   ff. ;  in  S. 
Ichneutce,  175. 

—  Hymn  to,  see  Hymn. 
Hermione,  79;  in  E.  Andromache,  219 

ff.,  225  ff.,  318;  in  Orestes,  268  ff. 
HERODOTUS,  3  and  n.,  7  n.,  15,  89  [v. 

67,  vi.  21], 
HESYCHIUS,  281  n. 
Hiawatha,  ste  LONGFKLLOW. 
Hiero  of  Syracuse,  10,  119. 
Hippe,  in  E.  Melanippe,  305  f. 
Hippolytus,  in  E.  Hippol.,  46,  205  ff., 

279-80,  284  n.,  318. 
Hippolytus,    see    EURIPIDES  ;     so   H. 

Crowned,  and  H.  Veiled. 
Histoire  de  la  Litterature  Grecque,  see 

CROISET. 
History    of  Gk.    Literature,  see   MA- 

HAFFY. 

HOMER,  21,  118,  123,320;  Iliad,  120, 
288,  291  ;  Odyssey  [iv.  351-86],  98 
and  n  ;  [ix.  105-566],  290  nn. 

—  the  tragedian,  39. 
Homeric  Hymn  to  Hermes,  175. 
HORACE,  21,  56 ;  Ars  Poetica,  5  n.,  56 

and  n.  ;  Epodes,  345  n.  [A. P.  275- 

8]. 

HORACE  WALPOLE,  311. 
"  Host,"  13. 
HUNT,  DR.  A.  S.,  18,  175  n.  176  n.  ;  and 

see  Oxyrhynchus  and  Papyri. 
Hyllus,  in  E.  Heracleid.,  200  ff.  ;  in  S. 

Trachinice,  154  ff.,  178. 
Hymn  to  Hermes,  175. 
Hypermnestra,  85 ;    in   M.   Danaides, 

128. 

Hypsipyle,  in  E.  Hypsip.,  304. 
Hypsipyle,  see  EURIPIDES. 

IBSEN,  p.  v,  28,  211,  317;   A   Doll's 

House,  189,  224. 
Ichneutce,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Iliad,  see  HOMER. 


Ino,  see  E. 

Io,  in  JE.  Prom.  V.,  94  ff.,  105. 

lolaus,  in  E.  Heracleida,  200  ff. 

lole,  in  S.  Trachinice,  154  ff.,  179. 

ION  of  Chios,  21,  23-4;  Memoirs  or 
Epidemiai,  13  n.,  15;  Founding 
of  Chios,  23  ;  Great  Play,  24  and 
n. 

—  in  E.  Ion,  236  ff.,  279,  303. 
Ion,  see  EURIPIDES. 

lophon,  s.  of  SOPHOCLES,  13,  60. 

Iphigenia,  42,  263,  270,  318,  321 ;  in 
JE.  Agam.,  99  ff.  ;  in  E.  Iph.  A., 
285  ff.,  322 ;  Iph.  T.,  73,  247  ff. ; 
in  POLYIDUS  Iphig.,  32. 

Iphigenia,  see  POLYIDUS. 

—  at  Aulis,  see   EURIPIDES. 

—  in  Tauris,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Iphis,  in  E.  Suppl.,  234  ff. 

Iris,  apparition,  of,  in  E.  H.  Fur.,  65, 

229  ff. 

Isaiah  [liii.  i],  349. 
Ismene,  178;  in  JB.  Septem,  go;  in  S. 

Antig.,  137  ff. ;  (E.  Col.,  168  ff. 
ISOCRATES,  36. 
Israel,  172  ;  prophets  of,  and  M.t  121. 


Jason,  in  E.  Medea,  192  ff.,  321. 

Hypsip.,  304-5- 

NEOPHRON'S  Medea,  22. 

JEBB,  PROFESSOR  SIR  RICHARD,  p.  v, 
160  n. ;  on  S.  Ajax,  132  n.,  136  n.  ; 
Antigone,  136  n.,  139,  141,  351  ; 
Electro,  141  n.,  143  and  n. ;  (E. 
Col.,  71,  167,  170  and  n.,  171,  172 
n.,  173  n.,  182  n. ;  Philoct.,  165  n., 
166  and  n.,  167  n.  ;  Track.,  156 
and  n. ;  Growth  and  Influence  of 
Classical  Greek  Poetry,  318  n. 

Jocasta,  16,  46;  in  E.  Phcen.,  264  ff. ; 
in  S.  (E.  Tyr.,  146  ff. 

JOHN  BRIGHT,  348. 

JONES,  W.  H.  S.,  The  Moral  Standpoint 
of  Euripides,  28  sq. 

Joseph, 172. 

Juliet's  nurse,  124. 

Julius  Csesar,  in  Sh.,  134. 

Jupiter  Tragcedus,  see  LUCIAN. 

Justice,  see  GALSWORTHY. 

Justice  Shallow,  199. 


KEATS,  33. 

Kindly  Ones,  The,  111-7. 

King  Lear,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 

KIPLING,  319. 

KIRK  WHITE,  118  and  n. 

Knights,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 

KYD,  121 ;  Spanish  Tragedy,  268. 


III.  PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


379 


Lady  Macbeth  and  Clytaemnestra,  104. 
Laertes,  297. 

LAHRTIUS,  DIOGENES,  see  D.L. 
Laius,  in  S.  CE.  Tyr.,  145  ff. 
Laius,  see  ^SCHYLUS. 
Lampros,  12. 
Laocoon,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
La  Tentation  de  St.  Antoine,  see  FLAU- 
BERT. 

Laws,  see  PLATO. 
Lear,  King,  79,  136-7. 
Lear,  King,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 
Lectures  on  Greek  Poetry,  see  MACKAIL. 
Leda,  260,  263. 

Le  jeu  de  V amour,  etc.,  see  MARIVAUX. 
Le  probleme  des   Bacchantes,  etc.,  see 

NIHARD. 
Libation- Bearers,  see  Choephorae,  under 

JE. 

Liber  Amatorius,  see  PLUTARCH. 
Libyans,  see  PHRVNICHUS. 
Lichas,  in  S.  Trachinite,  154  ff. 
Life  of  Aristides,  see  PLUTARCH. 
Literature     of    Ancient     Greece,     see 

MURRAY. 

Lityerses,  see  SOSITHEUS. 
Locksley  Hall,  see  TENNYSON. 
LONGFELLOW,  337  ;  Hiawatha,  353. 
"  LONGINUS,"  de    Sublimitate   [xv.    7. 

etc.],  174  and  n.,  251  n. 
Love  in  the  Valley,  see  MEREDITH. 
Lovers  of  Achilles,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Loxias,  in  E.  Orestes,  270. 
LUCIAN,   Adversus   indoctos   [15],   34  ; 

Jupiter   Tragcedus   [41],    306  n.  ; 

Quomodo  historia  conscribenda  [i], 

298  and  n. 
LUCRETIUS,  319. 
LYCOPHRON,   39,   40;    Alexandra,  40; 

Menedemus,  39-40. 
Lycurgea,  trilogy,  117,  and  see  M. 
Lycurgus,  k.  of  Edoni,  117. 

—  orator,  31,  81. 

—  theatre  of,  57. 

Lycurgus  (satyric),  117  and  see  fiL. 
Lycus,  in   E.  Antiope,  298 ;    H.  Fur., 

203  and  n.,  228  ff.,  317. 
Lynceus,  85. 

Lynceus,  see  THEODECTES. 
LYSIAS,  Eratosthenes  [ii.j,  30  and  n. 

Mab,  Queen,  in  SH.,  R.  and  Juliet,  79. 
Macaria,  in  E.  Heracleidce,  200  ff.,  288, 

317- 

Macbeth,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 
Macbeth,  273  ;  Lady,  104. 
Macduffs,  73. 
MACKAIL,   Lectures  on    Greek   Poetry, 

171  n.,  184  n. 
Macrobius  [V.,  xviii.  12],  304  n. 


Mad  Heracles,  228-34. 

MAHAFFY,  History  of  Greek  Literature, 

Poets,  163  n. 
MANNING,  F.,  Scenes  and  Portraits,  311 

and  n. 
MARIVAUX,   Le  jeu   de  I'amour  et  du 

hasard  [II.,  ii.],  28  and  n. 
Mark  Antony,  134. 
MARLOWE,  121,  183,  185,  317,  328. 
MASSINGER  and  DEKKER,    The  Virgin 

Martyr,  137. 
MATTHAEI,    Miss    L.    E.,    Studies    in 

Greek  Tragedy,  216  n. 
MATTHEW  ARNOLD,  see  A.  M. 
Mausolus,  k.  of  Caria,  38. 
Mausolus,  see  THEODECTES. 
Measure  for  Measure, see  SHAKESPEARE. 
Medea,  in  E.  Medea,  8,  72,  159  n.,  190, 
192  ff.,  218,  279,  313. 

—  apparition  of,  65  ;  chariot  of,  312-3  ; 

sons  of,  71. 

—  in  NEOPHRON'S  Medea,  22. 
Medea,  see  CARCINUS,  EURIPIDES,  and 

NEOPHRON. 

Megara,  in  Here.  Fur.,  228  ff. 
Meidias,  Demosthenes'  speech  against, 

82. 
MEINEKE,       Fragmenta       Comicorum 

Gracorum  [ii.  1142],  19,  38  n. 
Melanippe,  in  E.  Melan.,  305  ff.,  312. 
Melanipfe,  etc.,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Melanippus,  3  n. 
Meleager,   in   PHRYNICHUS  Pleuronia, 

Memnon,  in  M.,  Weighing  of  Souls, 
1 20. 

Memoirs,  see  ION. 

MENANDER,  29,  83,  289,  311. 

Menedemus  the  philosopher,  25. 

Menedemus,  see  LYCOPHRON. 

Menelaus,  254  ;  in  /E.  Agam.,  99 ;  in 
E.  Andromache,  219  ff.,  225  ff., 
Helena,  258  n.,  259  ff.,  322;  I. 
AuL,  285  ff. ;  Orestes,  268  ff.,  312, 
323 ;  Ttlephus,  295-6 ;  Troades, 
243  n.  and  244 ;  in  S.  Ajax,  132  ff. 

Menoeceus,  in  E.  Phcenissa,  264  ff. 

Men  of  Eleusis,  Men  of  Persia,  see  M. ; 
Men  of  Pherce,  see  MOSCHION. 

Menon,  archonship  of,  87. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 

Mercutio,  79. 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE,  287,  322  ;  Love  in 
the  Valley,  33. 

Merope,  in  E.  Cresphontes,  307  f. ;  in 
S.  CE.  Tyr.,  147. 

Merope,  see  ARNOLD. 

Merops,  in  E.  Phaethon,  301  ff. 

Michelangelo,  102. 

Middlemarch,  see  ELIOT,  GEORGE. 


380 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


MIDDLETON,  Witch,  g. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  see  SHAKE- 
SPEARE. 

Miletus,  Capture  of,  see  PHRYNICHUS. 

MILTON  and  XL.,  97,  122;  and  S. 
(E.  Col.  171  ;  Paradise  Lost,  95. 

MIMNERMUS,  39  and  n.,  ng. 

Minos,  [321  A],  5  n. 

Mnesarchus,  father  of  E.,  17. 

Mnesilochus,  in  A.  Thesmoph.,  296. 

MOLIERE,  39  n. 

Molottus,  in  E.  Androma.,  219  ff.,  225 
ff. 

Moralia,  see  PLUTARCH. 

Moral  Standpoint  of  Euripides,  The, 
see  JONES. 

Mornings  in  Florence,  see  RUSKIN. 

MOSCHION,  37,  38,  41,  315 ;  Men  of 
Pheree,  38 ;  Telephus,  38  n. ; 
Themistodes,  38. 

Moses,  172. 

MULLER,  K.  O.,  On  Lit.,  163  n. 

MOLLER-HEITZ,  Griechische  Litter  a- 
tiirgeschichte  [ii.  88],  92  n. 

MURRAY,  PROFESSOR  GILBERT,  p.  v; 
Euripides  and  his  Age,  276  n.,  279 
n.,  280  n.,  282  n.,  283  n. ;  Literature 
of  Ancient  Greece,  126  and  n. ;  on 
Cyclops,  289  n.,  362  n. ;  Helen,  263 
n. ;  Heracl.,  201  n.  ;  Hippol.,  210- 
n,  214;  Iph.  A.t  286  n. ;  /.  Taur., 
247  n.,  251  n. ;  Medea,  198  n. ; 
Orestes,  268  n. ;  Rhesus,  294  n. ; 
tr.  of  S.  (E.  Col.,  185. 

Mustering  of  the  Greeks  (satyric),  see 
SOPHOCLES. 

Myrmidons,  see  M. 

Myrtilus,  274. 


NAUCK,  301  n.  i,  306  n. 
Nausicaa,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Nazianzus,  GREGORY  of,  41. 
NEOPHRON,  21-2,  195-6;  Medea,  21. 
Neoptolemus,  in    E.    Andromache,  219 
ff.,  225  ff. 

Troades,  243. 

S.  Eurypylus,  176  and  n. 

Philoctetes,  120,  161  ff.,  206, 

334  n- 

Nereides,  see  JE. 
Nereus,  275  ;  daughters  of,  118. 
Nessus,  in  S.  Trachin.,  154  ff. 
NESTLE,  DR.  W.,  Euripides  der  Dichter 

der  griech.  Aufkldrung,  318  n.,  324 

n.,  325- 
Nestor,  14. 
Nicias,  13,  60,  163. 
Nicias,  sec  PLUTARCH. 
Nicomachean  Ethics,  see  ARISTOTLE. 


NIHARD,  DR.  R.,  Le  Probleme  des 
Bacchantes  d'Euripide,  281  n. 

Niobe,  in  JE.,  20. 

Niobe,  see  RL. 

"  Noman,"  in  E.  Cyclops,  289-90. 

NORWOOD,  PROFESSOR  GILBERT,  Riddle 
of  the  Bacchte,  191  n.,  279  n.,  281  n. 

Note  sur  le  Promethee  d'Eschyle,  see 
WEIL. 

Oceanus,  in  JE.  Prom.  V.,  65,  94. 

E.  Phaethon,  303  and  n. 

Odysseus,  319;  in  JE.  Philoct.,  120;  in 

E.  CycL,  2,  289  ff.  ;    Hecuba,  216 ; 

Philoct.,    296;     Rhesus,    291    ff. ; 

Telephus,  295-6  ;  Troades,  243  ;  in 

S.  Ajax,  132  ff. ;   Philoct.,  161  ff., 

178,  179,  334  n. 
Odyssey,  see  HOMER. 
CEdipus,  46,  72,  136;  in  E.  Phcen.,  264 

ff. ;  in  S.  (E.  Col.,  168  ff.,  177,  185, 

217  ;  (E.  Tyr.,  145  ff.,  177-8  ;  sons 

of,  89. 

CEdipus,  see  AESCHYLUS,  CARCINUS,  and 
SOPHOCLES. 

—  Coloneus,  see  SOPHOCLES. 

—  Rex,  see  SOPHOCLES. 

—  Tyrannus,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
CEneus,  see  CH^RBMON. 
CEnomaus,  70. 

Olympian  Odes,  see  PINDAR. 

Olynthiacs,  see  DEMOSTHENES. 

On  the  Sublime,  see  "  LONGINUS  ". 

Opheltes,  in  E.  Hypsipyle,  304. 

Oration,  see  Dio  CHRYSOSTOM. 

Orator,  see  CICERO. 

Oresteia,  see  AESCHYLUS. 

Orestes,  46,  63-4,  67,  76,  129-30,313; 
delirium  of,  70 ;  nurse  of,  124 ;  in  JE. 
Agam.,  100 ;  Choeph.,  73  n.,  104, 107 
ff.,  126  ;  Bum.,  in  ff.,  128,  130  n.  ; 
E.  Androma.,  220  ff.,  226  ;  Electra, 
252  ff. ;  Iph.  I.,  73,  247  ff.  ;  Or.,  268 
ff-i  323J  Telephus,  296;  in  POLYI- 
DUS  Iph.,  31  ;  in  S.  Electra,  141  ff. 

Orgon,  M.,  in  MARIVAUX,  28  n. 

Origin  of  Tragedy,  see  RIDGEWAY. 

Orithyia,  in  S.  Orith.,  175. 

Orithyia,  see  SOPHOCLES. 

Orpheus,  in  K,.  Bassarides,  117. 

Ortheris,  Private,  319. 

Orthomenes,  F.  of  Ion  of  Chios,  23. 

Othello,  136. 

Outis,  in  E.  Cyclops,  289-90. 

OVID,  257. 

Palamedes,  see  EURIPIDES. 
PALEY,  on  E.  Orestes,  276. 
Pallas,  in  E.  H.  Pur.,  233  n. 
Panza,  Sancho,  255. 


III.   PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


381 


Paradise  Lost,  see  MILTON. 

Paris,  in  E.  Helena,  259  ;  Iph.  A.,  285  ; 

Rhesus,  291  n.  ff. 
Parthenopceus,  see  ASTYDAMAS. 
PATIN,  Escliyle,  88  and  n. 
Patroclus,    in     M.     Myrmidons,     and 

Nereids,  118. 

Patterne,  Sir  Willoughby,  287. 
Peace,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 
Peel,  Sir  Robert,  325. 
Pegasus,  in  E.  Bellerophon,  297. 
Peleus  in  E.  Andromache,  220  ff.,  225 

ff.  ;  Iph.  A.,  286. 
Peliades,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Pentheus,  see   EURIPIDES  Baccha,  70, 

73,  277  ff. 

Pentheus,  see  THESPIS. 
Pericles,  13,  116,  177,  270,  313. 
Pericles,  see  PLUTARCH. 
Per  see,  see  M. 
Persephone,  in   CARCINUS,   35 ;   in   E. 

Helena,  260;  Heracleida,  200;   in 

Pirithous,  29. 

Perseus,  in  E.  Andromeda,  298  ff. 
Persian  counsellors,  7. 
Peruigilium  Veneris,  333  n. 
Phasdra,  190,  205  ff.,  218,  279,  317-8. 
Phasdrus,  52. 
Phaethon,  in  M.  D.  of  Sun,  119. 

E.  Phaethon,  300  ff. 

—  sisters  of,  in  E.  Hippol.,  208. 
Phaethon,  see  EURIPIDES. 
PHERECRATES     Cheiron,     72    and    n. 

[Fragm.  i.]. 

Pheres,  in  E.  Alcestis,  186  ff. 
Phidias,  14. 
PHILEMON,  83. 
Philip  of  Macedon,  82,  163. 
PHILISCUS,  39,  40. 
Philoctetes,  62,  73  ;  in  M.  Phil.,  120  ; 

in  S.  Phil.,  161  ff.,  177-8,  181 ;  in 

THEODECTES,  37. 
Philoctetes, see  ACH^EUS,  M.,  E.,  S.,  and 

THEODECTES. 

Philomela,  in  S.  Tereus,  174. 
Phineus,  in  E.  Andromeda,  299  ff. 
Phineus,  see  M. 
Phoebus,   in    E.    Electra,   257-8 ;    Ion, 

242  ;  Iph.  I.,  250. 
Phoenician  Women,  see  EURIPIDES,  and 

PHRYNICHUS. 

Phcenissce,  see   EURIPIDES,  and   PHRY- 
NICHUS. 

Phorbas,  see  THESPIS. 
Phrygians,  see  JE. 
PHRYNICHUS,  comic  poet,  14. 

—  general,  7  n. 

—  tragedian,  2,  6-10,  12,  15,  22,  78,  86, 

90,    141,    315;     in    Frogs,    126; 
Alcestis,  6-7;  Antceus,  6-7;  Cap- 


ture of  Miletus,  6-7,  38.  Danaides 
or  Daughters  of  Danaus,  6-7, 
Egyptians,  6-7 ;  Libyans,  6-7  ; 
Phoenician  Women  or  Phcenissce; 
6-10,  38  ;  Pleuronice  or  Pleuronian 
Women,  6-7 ;  Tantalus,  6 ;  Troi- 
lus,  7. 

PlCKARD-CAMBRIDGE,  53  n. 

PINDAR,  9,  24 ;  his  tropes,  123  ;  Olym- 
pian Odes  [xiii.  18  sq.],  3  and  n. 

Pirithous,  in  Pirithous,  29. 

Pirithous,  18,  29;  and  see  CRITIAS. 

Pisistratus,  50. 

PLATO,  comic  playwright,  78-9. 

PLATO,  philosopher,  21,  34,  36,  128, 
182-3 '.  Laws  [659  A-C,  700  C, 
701  A],  60  n. ;  Protagoras  [315 
E],  28  n.  ;  Republic  [391  E],  119 
and  n.  ;  Symposium,  27,  29,  50  n., 
55  and  n.  [175  E,  194  B,  197 

D,  198   C,    223     D] ;     [  ?  Minos, 
321  A],  5  n. 

PLAUTUS,  Pcenulus,  23. 

Pleuronice  or  Pleuronian  Women,  see 
PHRYNICHUS. 

PLOTIUS,  De  Metris  [p.  2633],  6  n. 

PLUTARCH,  323  ;  Cimon  [viii.j,  12  ;  De 
Gloria  Atheniensium  [349  E],  31; 
De  Profectu  in  Virtute  [79  B, 
E]»  15,  23  n. ;  Liber  Amatorius 
[756  B,  C],  83  n. ;  Life  of  Aristidts 
[III.],  91  and  n. ;  Moralia,  [998 

E,  no   D],   308   and  n. ;    Nicias 
[524  D],   60  n. ;     Pericles  [V],  24 
and   n. ;    Symposiaca  [615   A,  645 
E],  2  n.,  26  and  n. 

Pluto,  in  Pirithous,  29. 
Pcenulus,  see  PLAUTUS. 
Poetic,  see  ARISTOTLE. 
POLLUX  [iv.  126,  128],  63  n.,  64,  66  and 

n.,  67  n.,  70. 
Pollux,  in    E.    Electra,   253;    Helena, 

258  n.,  259  ff. 
Polonius,  297. 

Polybus,  in  S.  (E.  Tyr.,  147  ff. 
Polydeuces,  see  Pollux  ;  252  n.,  etc. 
Polydorus,  ghost  of,  in  E.  Hec.,  215  ff. 
Polygnotus,  14^. 

POLYIDUS,  31-2  ;  Iphigenia,  31. 
Polyidus,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Polymestor,  in  E.  Hec.,  215  ff. 
Polynices,  235 ;  in  M.  Septem,  89  ff. ; 

in  E.  Phcen.,  264  ff.  ;  in  S.  Antig., 

137  ff. ;  (E.  Col.,  168  ff. 
Polyphemus,  in  E.  Cyclops,  289  ff. 
Polyphonies,  in  E.  Cresphontes,  307  f. 

POLYPHRADMON,  6,  90. 

Polyphron,  38. 

Polyxena,  in  E.  Hec.,  216  ff. ;  Troad., 
243  ff. 


382 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Polyxena,  see  SOPHOCLES. 

PORTER,  W.  H.,  The  Euripidcan 
Rhesus  in  the  light  of  recent  criti- 
cism, 295  n. 

Poseidon,  85 ;  in  E.  Hippol.,  206 ;  Ion, 
242;  Troad.,  243  ff. ;  Melanippe, 

305  f- 

Possessed,  The,  see  DOSTOEVSKY. 
POWELL,  J.  U.,  ed.  of  E.  Phcenissa,  256 

and  n.,  265  n. 
PRATINAS,  2,  6,  71  n.,  go. 
Praxiteles,  126. 

Praxithea,  in  E.  Erechthens,  297. 
Priam,  in  M.  A  gam.,  99 ;    Phrygians, 

118;  in  E.  Hec.,  215;  in  S.  Eury- 

pyliis,  176. 

Priests,  The,  see  THESPIS. 
Private  Ortheris,  319. 
Procne,  in  S.  Tereus,  174. 
Prodicus,  28. 
Professor,  see  Jebb,  Murray,  Norwood, 

Ridgeway,  Roberts,  Tucker,  Wila- 

mowitz-Mollendorff. 
Prometheus,   62,   72,  76,  88;    in   M., 
I2i ;  in  Prom.  V.,  92  ff. 

—  trilogy,  114. 
Prometheus  (sat.),  see  M. 

—  Bound,  see  JE. 

—  The  Fire-Bringcr,  see  JE. 

—  Unbound,  see  JE.  and  SHELLEY. 
Protagoras,  17. 

Protagoras,  see  PLATO. 

Proteus,  tomb  of,  in  E.  Helena,  259. 

Proteus,  see  /E. 

Ptolemy  II.,  39-40. 

PUCHSTEIN,  81  n. 

Pylades,  64;  in  M.  Choeph.,  73  n., 
108-9;  in  E.  El.,  252  ff. ;  Iph.  T., 
73,  247  ff. ;  Orest.,  268  ff. ;  in  S. 
El.,  141  ff. 

PYTHON  of  Catana  or  Byzantium,  39. 

Queen  Mab,  in  Sh. ,  Romeo  and  J.,  79. 
Quomodo    Historia    Conscribenda,    see 

LUCIAN. 

Raffaelle,  33,  102. 

Ransom  of  Hector,  see  M.  and  DIONY- 

sius. 

Relapse,  The,  see  VANBRUGH. 
RENAN,  311. 
Republic,  see  PLATO. 
Rhesus  in  Rhesus,  291  ff. 
Rhesus,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Rhetoric,  see  ARISTOTLE. 
RHYS  ROBERTS,  PROFESSOR  W.,  his  tr. 

of  De  Sublimitate,  24  n. 
Richard  III,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 
Riddle  of  the  Baccha,  see  NORWOOD. 


RIDGEWAY,  PROFESSOR  SIR  WM.,  The 
Origin  of  Tragedy,  2-3,  64  n. 

ROBERTS,  RHYS,  see  RHYS  R. 

Robespierre,  30. 

RUPERT  BROOKS,  358. 

RUSKIN,  Mornings  in  Florence  [I.  14], 
299  and  n. 

Russell,  Lord  John,  325. 

S.  PAUL  [i  Cor.  xv.  33],  309. 

ST.  JOHN  HANKIN,  28. 

SALTER,  W.  H.,  Essays  on  Two 
Moderns,  281  n. 

Samuel,  172,  237. 

Sancho  Panza,  255. 

SAPPHO,  8, 

Saranoff,  Sergius,  288. 

SATYRUS,  Life  of  Euripides,  18,  29  n. 

SCALIGER,  on  Rhesus,  294. 

Scenes  and  Portraits,  see  MANNING. 

Scephrus,  3  n. 

SCHILLER,  Don  Carlos  [III.  10],  324  n. 

SCHMIDT,  DR.  J.  H.  H.,  334  n.,  346  n. 
(Die  Eurhythmie  in  den  Chorge- 
sdngen  der  Griechen,  [p.  89,  etc.]), 
353  n.  (Introduction,  etc.),  358  n., 
345,  362  n.,  354. 

Scholar -Gipsy,  see  ARNOLD. 

SEDLEY,  360. 

Semele,  in  E.  Bacchce,  277  ff.  ;  Hippol., 

212. 

SENECA,  44,  272. 

Septem,  see  M. 

Sergius  Saranoff,  288. 

Seven  against  Thebes,  see  M. 

SHAKESPEARE,  9,  14,  29  n.,  79, 104, 183, 
219,  282,  325,  and  SHAW,  121  ;  As 
You,  63 ;  Hamlet,  152  n.,  183 ; 
Henry  V  [iv.  8],  88  and  n. ;  // 
Henry  VI  [iii.  i],  66 ;  John,  234 ; 
jful.  C.,  134;  Lear,  16,  171-2,  183 
[iij.  4] ;  Macbeth,  9,  16,  42,  70, 
317 ;  M.  for  M.,  41  ;  Mcht.  V., 
72-4  n. ;  M.  N.  Dr.  [ii.  i],  355 ; 
Much  Ado,  199;  Rd.  Ill,  282; 
R.  and  y.,  79,  124  ;  Sonnets,  174  ; 
Tp.,  [v.  i],  354  ;  Titus  A.  [ii.  I. 
5-7],  121  and  n. 

—  Justice  Shallow,  199. 

SHAW,  BERNARD,  39  n. ;  Doctor's 
Dilemma,  236  n. ;  320-1  (and  E.). 

—  Sergius  Saranoff  in,  288;  and  SH., 

121. 

SHELLEY,  Prom.  Unbd.,  95. 

Silenus,  69 ;  in  E.  Cyclops,  289  ff. ; 
in  S.  Ichneutce,  175. 

SIMONIDES,  9-10. 

SIR  H.  RIDER  HAGGARD,  248. 

Sir  Willoughby  Patterne,  in  MERE- 
DITH'S Egoist,  287. 


III.  PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


383 


Sisyphus,  in  AGATHON,  27. 

Sisyphus,  of  CRITIAS,  29-30 ;  and  see 
EURIPIDES. 

Socrates,  17,  28  and  n.,  29  n.,  50  n.,  65, 
67,  163  n.,  318. 

Sonnets,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 

Sophillus,  f.  of  SOPHOCLES. 

SOPHOCLES,  v,  vi,  4,  10,  12  ff.,  17-20, 
22-4, 26, 31, 37,  59,  60,  74, 77, 91-2, 
95,  122,  132  ff.,  186,  192,  195-6, 
208-9,  223-4,  226  n.,  275,  276  n., 
281,  293,  295-6,  312,  333. 

—  as  actor  and    citharist,  or  harpist, 

71,  173-4- 

—  Attic   spirit   of,    182 ;     criticism   of 

other  dramatists,  160  n. 

—  dramatic  irony  in,  179-80. 

—  influenced  by  E.,  in  Track.,  159-60. 

—  influence  on   M.,  126 ;    introduced 

crepis,  68 ;  invented  scene-paint- 
ing. 52;  Jebb's  ed.  of,  v;  metre 
of,  180,  331  n.,  334. 

—  mind  and  art  of,  177  ff. ;  plots,  179  ; 

religion,  177;  technical  innova- 
tions, 15. 

—  Ajax,  42  n.,  55n.,63,  71,  119,  132-6, 

138,  155.  158-9,  184  [11.  520-1, 
559,  646,  650-3,  815  sqq.]. 

—  Amphiaraus  (satyric  play),  174. 

—  Antigone,  8  n.,  15,  132,  136-41,  184, 

266,  349  [11.  95,  175-90,  450-7°, 
582  sqq.,  782,  904-12,  1195,  1329- 
30]. 

—  Detectives  (satyric),  175-6. 

—  Dinner-Party  (satyric),  174. 

—  Electra,  63,  141-5,  152,  160  n.,  171 

n.,  253  [11.  147-9,  303-16,  328  sqq., 
415,  582  sqq.,  616-21,  957,  974, 
1080,  1165  sq.,  1288  sqq.,  1331-3, 
1424-5,  1508  sqq.]. 

—  Eurypylus,  176. 

—  Ichneutce,  2,  175-6. 

—  Laocoon,  174. 

—  Lovers  of  Achilles,  174. 

—  Mustering  of  the  Greeks  (satyric), 

174. 

—  Nausicaa,  12,  174. 

—  CEdipus,  24. 

—  CEdipus       at       Colonus,       CEdipus 

Coloneus,  13,  14  and  n.,  16,  71  n., 
160  n.,  167-73,  174,  185,  267 
[11.  62  sq.,  106,  258-91,  443,  472, 
506,  569,  607  sqq.,  620,  670-80, 
854-5,  960-1013,  964-5,  1047  sq., 
1055,  1082,  1116,  1127,  1148-9, 
1152,  1225-8,  1422-5,  1503  sq., 
1563  sq.,  1582  sqq.,  1615  sqq., 
1627  sq.,  1682,  1697. 

—  CEdipus  Rex,  the  King,  or  Tyrannus, 

13  n.,  16,  35,  37,  79,  96,  145-54, 


157, 169, 173, 179, 183, 266,  268,  n. 
331  n.  (Aristotle's  remarks  on 
CE.  Tyr.,  46-8, 148)  [11.  i,  29, 124- 
5,  130-1,  151,  436,  483  sq.,  587- 

8,  738,  758-64,  774  *??•,  942,  959, 
1026,    1028,    1038,   1117-8,   1141, 
1313,  1524-5]. 

SOPHOCLES,  Orithyia,  175. 

—  Philoctetes,    16,   46,   76,   120,   145, 

161-7,  X79  >  Deus  ex.  m.  in,  315  ; 
metre  of,  181,  334  n.,  337  [11. 
187-90, 268, 282-4, 287-92, 385  sqq., 
456  sqq.,  670,  926  sqq.,  981  sq., 
1007-15,  1035  sqq.,  1047-51, 
1095  sqq.,  1222  sqq.,  1299  sqq. , 
1402,  1455]. 

—  Polyxena,  174. 

—  Tereus,  174. 

—  Thamyras,  71. 

—  Trachinice,    154-60,    164,    195     [11. 

9-14,  248-86,  268,  416,  427,  547- 

9,  575-7,  719  *?••  900-22,  927  sq., 
1140. 

—  Triptolemus,  173. 

—  Women  Washing,  174. 

—  Fragmenta    Adespota    [344,     345], 

173-5- 

SOSIPHANES,  40-41. 

SOSITHEUS,  39-40 ;  Daphnis  (satyric), 
40  ;  Lityerses  (satyric),  40. 

Spanish  Tragedy,  see  KYD. 

Sphinx,  see  M. 

STESICHORUS,  262  n. 

STEVENSON,  R.  L.,  320. 

Stheneboea,  in  £.,318. 

Stobaeus,  37  [102-3],  39  n.,  323. 

Stockman,  Dr.,  in  IBSEN,  317. 

STRABO  [I.  33],  301  and  n. 

Studies  in  Greek  Tragedy,  see 
MATTHAEI. 

the  Greek  Poets,  see  SYMONDS. 

SUIDAS,  5,  15  n.,  21  n.,  22,  23,  25  n. 

Suppliant  Women,  or  Supplices,  see 
M.  and  E. 

SWIFT,  248. 

SWINBURNE,  174 ;  Erechtheus,  297. 

SYMONDS,  J.  A.,  Studies  in  the  Greek 
Poets  [II.  26],  33  n. 

Symposiaca,  see  PLUTARCH. 

Symposium,  see  PLATO. 


Talking  Oak,  see  TENNYSON. 
Talthybius,  in   E.  Hec.,  216;    Troad., 

243  ff. 

Tannhauser,  283. 
Tantalus,  see  PHRYNICHUS. 
TCHEKOV,  Cherry  Orchard,  319. 
Tauric  Iphigenia,  see  EURIPIDES,  73. 
Tecmessa,  in  S.  Ajax,  132  ff.,  159. 


384 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Tclephus,  in  E.  Tel.,  295-6. 

Telephus,       sec        EURIPIDES,       and 

MOSCHION. 

Tempest,  see  SHAKESPEARE. 
Teniers,  124. 
TENNYSON,  Talking  Oak,  355  ;  Locksley 

Hall,  335,  339. 
TERENCE,  28,  36. 
Tereus,  in  S.  Ter.,  174. 
Tereus,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Tess  of  the  D'Urbervilles,  see  THOMAS 

HARDY. 
Teucer,  in  E.  Helena,  258  n.,  259  ff.  ; 

in  S.  Ajax,  132  ff.,  158. 
Thamyras,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Thanatos,  in  E.  Alcestis,  187  ff. 
Themistocles,  7,  88-g,  128  n. 
Themistocles,  see  MOSCHION. 
Theoclymenus,  in   E.  Helena,  258  ff., 

314  n. 

THEOCRITUS,  40. 
THEODECTES       of      Phaselis,       36-8  ; 

Lynceus,  37  ;  Mausolus,  38. 
Theodorus  the  actor,  35. 
Theonoe,  in  E.  Helena,  258  n.,  259  ff. 
Theseus,    in   E.   Here.   Fur.,    228  ff.  ; 

Hippol.,  205    ff.  ;  Suppl.,  234   ff.  ; 

in  S.  (E.  Col.,  168  ff.  ;  178,  185  ; 

in  Pirithous,  29. 

Thesmophoriazusee,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 
THESPIS,  2,  4-5  (his  waggon,  50),  56, 

58,  68  ;  his  supposed  fragments,  5  ; 

Pentheus,  Phorbas,  Priests,  Trials 

of  Pelias,  Youths,  5. 
The  Theory  of  Beauty,  see  CARRITT. 
Thetis,  65,  in  M.  Nereids,  118;  W.  of 

Souls,     120  ;    in    E.    Andromache, 

220  ff.  ;  iph.  A.,  286. 
Thoas,   in   E.  Hypsip.,  304;  Iph.    T., 

247  ff. 
THOMAS  HARDY  and  E.,  325  ;   Tess  of 

the  D'U.,  325-6. 
Thorvald  Helmer,  in  IBSEN'S  A  Doll's 

House,  189. 

Thracian  Women,  see  JE. 
THUCYDIDES,  14,   182-3;    325  n-   [HI- 

82-3]. 

Thyestes,  257. 
Thyestes,  see  CARCINUS,  and   CH.T.RE- 

MON. 


57. 

Timotheus,  18,  72. 
Tiresias,  in  E.  Baccha,  277  ff.  ;  Phcen., 

264  ff.  ;  in  S.  Antig.,  137  ff.  ;  (E. 

Tyr.,   146  ff. 
Titans,  93  ff.  (Oceanus,  94  ;  Prometheus, 

93  ff.)- 

Titus  Andronicus,  see  SHAKESPBARK. 
Trachinia,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Tragic  Drama,  etc.,  see  HAIGH. 


Trials  of  Pelias,  see  THESPIS. 
Triptolemus,  in  CHCERILUS'  A  lope ;   in 

S.  Tript.,  173. 
Triptolemus,  see  SOPHOCLES. 
Troades,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Troilus,  see  PHRYNICHUS. 
Trojan  Women,  see  EURIPIDES. 
Trygaeus  in  A.  Peace,  297. 
TUCKER,  PROFESSOR,  tr.  of  JE.  Suppl., 

86  and  n. 

Tyndareus,  in  E.  Or.,  268  ff. 
Typhos,  232. 


VALCKENAER,  on  Rhesus,  294  n. 

VANBRUGH,  Relapse  [V.  iv.  135],  105 
and  n. 

Vanity  Fair,  319. 

Varia  Historia,  see  JELIAN. 

Veiled  Hippolytus,  see  EURIPIDES. 

Venus  of  Melos,  182. 

VERGIL,  20, 174;  JEneid,  174  n.  [I.  203]. 

VERRALL,  DR.  A.  W.,  on  JE.  Agam., 
100  and  n.,  ff.,  122  and  n.,  126  ; 
Choeph.,  143  and  n.,  258  n. ;  Eitm., 
115  n.  116  n.,  130  n.  ;  Septem,  91 
and  n. ;  on  E.  Ale.,  188  n.,  190  ff. ; 
Androma.,  222-3;  Bac.,  281  n. ; 
Hel.,  263  ;  H.  Fur.,  230  ff.  ;  Ion, 
239-40  ;  Med.,  195-7  !  Or.,  273  n. ; 
his  Dramatic  Criticism,  p.  v ; 
Bacchcz  of  E.  and  other  Essays,  8 
n.  ;  E.  in  a  Hymn,  250  n. ;  E.'s 
Apology,  262  ;  E.  the  Rationalist, 
130  n.,  190  and  n.,  250  n.,  265  n. ; 
Four  Plays  of  E.,  196  n.,  222-3  J 
228  and  n. ;  262  n. 

Virgin  Martyr,  see  DEKKER  and  MAS- 
SINGER. 

VITRUVIUS,  53  ff.,  58-9,  63  n.  [V.  vi., 
vii.  3-4], 

VOLTAIRE,  248,  257. 


WALPOLE,  HORACE,  311. 

Wasps,  see  ARISTOPHANES. 

Weighing  of  Souls,  see  JE. 

WEIL,     H.,    Note    sur     le    Promithee 

d'Eschyle,  93  n. 
WELCKER,  175  n. 
Werle,  Gregers,  317. 
WHITE,  PROFESSOR  J.  W.,  345  n. 
WIESELER,  54  n. 

WlLAMOWITZ  -  MOELLENDORFF,  PRO- 
FESSOR U.  von,  p.  v,  29  n.,  42  n., 
247  n.,  282, 294  n.,  Einleitung  in  die 
griechische  Tragodie,  42  n. 

Witch,  see  MIDDLETON. 

Women  of  Crete,  see  EURIP.  ;  of  Etna, 
see  JE. ;  of  the  Fatenskin,  see  JE. 


III.   PERSONS  AND  WORKS 


385 


Women  of  Trachis,  see  Trachiniez  and 
SOPHOCLES  ;  Women  Washing, 
see  SOPHOCLES. 

WORDSWORTH,  127,  172,  308. 

XENOCLES,  243. 

XENOPHON,  Hellenica   [VI.   iv.    33-4], 

38  n. 
Xerxes,  76,  228  ff. ;  in  M.  Persa,  87-9, 

356- 
Xuthus,  in  E.  Ion,  236  ff. 

Youths,  see  M.,  and  THESPIS. 


Zenocrate,  in  Tamburlaine,  328. 
Zethus,  in  £.  Antiope,  298. 
Zeus,  176,  277,  284. 

—  Cretan,  310. 

—  in  M.,  84  ff.,  127  ff.,  213;  in  Bum., 

112  ff. ;  in  W.  Souls,  120 ;  in  E. 
Andromeda,  300;  Antiope,  298; 
Bellero.,  297 ;  Helena,  260,  322 ; 
Heracleida,  201;  H.  Fur.,  229  ff. ; 
Hippol.,  208,  212 ;  Ion,  242 ; 
Melan.,  306;  Troad.,  246. 

—  temple  of,  at  Marathon,  in  E.  Hera- 

cleida, zoo. 


IV.  METRE 


ACCELERATED  Spondee,  343  n. 
Accentual  Dactyl,  356. 

—  Iambi,  328. 
Anaclasis,  356. 
Anacrusis,  334  n.,  342,  etc. 
Anapaesis  used  by  chorus,  337. 

—  in  recitative,  74. 

Anapaest,  ^  ^  -,  290  n.,  331,  338,  etc. 
Anapaestic  metre,  337-8. 

—  system,  337. 
Antistrophe,  78,  344  if. 
Antithetic-mesodic  periods,  361-2. 
Antithetic  periods,  360. 
Asclepiad,  greater,  8. 

BACCHIAC,  —  ^,  355. 
Blank  verse,  328. 

CAESURA,  332-3,  336. 
Catalectic   verse,   337,  339 ;    catalectic 
foot,  334. 

—  —  in  anapaestic  systems,  338. 
Catalexis,  335,  337,  353-4,  359. 
Choree,  352-3. 
Choriambics,  -<»»<-»-,  357- 
Cola,  three  types  of,  351. 
Colon,  343  ff. 

—  definition  of,  347. 
Counter-turn,  344. 
Cretic,  -  ^  -,  354. 

-  Final,  290  n.,  333-4. 

—  in  English,  355. 
Cyclic  Dactyls,  341. 

DACTYL,  -  ^,  w,  331,  etc.,  340. 
Dactylic  dipody,  356. 

—  hexameter,  339. 
Dactyls,  cyclic,  341. 
Definition  of  a  colon,  347. 

ictus,  347-8. 

metre,  327. 

poetry,  327. 

rhythm,  327. 

Diaeresis,  336-7. 

Dialogue-metre,  74,  334  ff.,  353. 
Dipody,  338,  351-2. 
Dochmiacs,  355,  358. 
Dochmius,  358. 


ELISION,  329,  etc.,  344  n. 
Emotional  significance  of  metre,  353  ff. 
Episodic  trochaics,  338,  353. 
Epode,  78,  345. 
Equal  cola,  351. 

FINAL  Cretic,  290  n.,  333-4. 
Foot-ictus,  342. 

GREATER  asclepiad,  8. 

HEXAMETER,  Dactylic,  339. 
Hexapody,  351-2. 
Hiatus,  329-30. 
Homeric  metre,  339. 

IAMBIC  metre,  4,  327,  330  ff. 

—  senarius,  340. 

Iambus,  w  -,  74,  327  ff.,  330,  etc. 
Ictus,  342,  347. 

—  definition  of,  347. 
Insetting,  342. 
Ionic,  —  \s  \j,  356. 
lonicus  a  maiore,  356. 

—  —  minore,  \j  <^>  — ,  356. 
Irrational   syllabus,   343   n.,  347,   351, 

362. 

LICENCES,  331,  335. 
Logaoedic  systems,  341. 
Long  syllables,  328. 
Lyrics,  v.,  vi.,  2,  338  ff. 


MESODE,  344,  361. 
Mesodic  periods,  361-2. 
Metre,  vi,  327  ff. 

—  definition  of,  327. 

—  in  comedy,  334. 

—  of  S.  Philoctetes,  181: 

315,  334- 

Molossus, ,  354. 

Music,  Greek,  339,  etc. 


of  E.  Orestes, 


OCTONARIUS,  335. 

—  trochaic,  339. 


PALiNODic-antithetic  periods,  361. 
mesodic  periods,  361-2. 


386 


IV.  METRE 


387 


pALiNooic-niesodic  periods,  361-2. 

—  periods,  360. 
Parcemiacs,  338  and  n. 
Pentapody,  351. 
Period,  343,  359  ff. 
Pitch-accent,  327  n. 
Poetry,  definition  of,  327. 
Postlude,  344,  362. 
Prelude,  342,  344,  362. 
Prodelision,  329. 

QUANTITY,  327  ff. 
Quasi-anapaests,  354. 
Quasi-trochees,  341. 
Quinquepartite  cola,  351. 

RECITATIVE,  337. 

Resolved  feet,  330,   334,   336,  342  n., 

353,355.358. 
Rhythm,  p.  vi,  327  ff. 

—  definition  of,  327. 

—  in  Philoctetes,  181. 
Rules  of  Quantity,  328-9. 

SCANSION,  327  ff. ;  of  lyrics,  v,  vi,  338 

ff. 
Scheme  of  iambic  verse,  334. 

trochaic  tetrameters,  337. 

Senarius,  iambic,  340. 
Sentence,  343,  etc. 


Spondaic  words    lacking    in    English, 

354- 

Spondee,  -  -,  181,  330,  etc.,  341,  353. 
Stichic  period,  359-60. 

mesodic  period,  361. 

Stress-accent,  327,  342,  347. 
"  Striking-up,"  342  n. 
Strophe,  78,  344  ff. 
Synapheia,  330. 
Syncopated  rhythm,  341. 
Synizesis,  332. 

TETRAMETER,  Trochaic,  334  ff. 

Tetrapody,  337,  35r-2. 

Tribrach,  ^  ^  ^,  181,  331,  335. 

Tripody,  351-2. 

Trochaic  tetrameter,  4,  334  ff, 

—  octonarius,  339. 

Trochee,  -  w,  334  ff-»  352. 

Turn,  344. 

Types  of  cola,  351. 

period,  359  ff. 

UNEQUAL  cola,  351. 

VERSE  in  lyrics,  346. 
Virgilian  metre,  339. 
Voice-stress,  328. 

WORD-ICTUS,  348. 


LINES  QUOTED  IN  CHAPTER  VI. 


^SCHYLUS  :    Agam.,   2,  160  sqq.t  975 
sqq.,  988  sqq.,  1530  sqq. 

—  Eumen.,  788  sq. 

—  Persce,  81  sq.,  126  sq. 

—  Prom.  V.,  12,  15,  115,  4r5,  420. 

—  SuppL,  418  sqq.,  582  sqq.,  656. 


EURIPIDES  :   Alcestts,   29,   32,  34,  37, 
179. 

—  Androma.,  241,  260,  804. 

—  Bacchce,  12,  64  sqq.,  703. 

—  Cyclops,  361  sqq. 

—  Hecuba,  629  sqq.;   Here.  Fur.,  76, 

857. 


EURIPIDES  :   Ion,   125-7,  3J3,  548  ;  /. 
AuL,  320,  882  ;  /.  T.,  123-5,  1232. 

—  Medea,   i,   635  ;    Orest.,   310,   367, 

502,  740,  756,  797,  872,  892,  894. 

—  Phcen.,  114  sqq.,  590  sq.,  609,  612  ; 

Troades,  710,  738. 

SOPHOCLES  :  Ajax,  646,  652  ;  Antigone, 
95,  582  sqq.,  1339  sq. 

—  Electra,    147-9;    (E.  Col.,    1047-8, 

1055,  1082. 

—  (E.    Tyr.,    i,   29,    151,   483-4,    738, 


—  Philoct.,   895  sqq.,  1095  S1<1"> 
sqq.,  1402. 


V.  GENERAL 


ACTOR,  i. 

—  Hegelochus,  74. 

—  Sophocles,  13. 

—  Theodorus,  35. 
Actors,  4,  15,  72-5. 
Actors'  Guild,  75. 

—  in  Roman  times,  59. 

—  privileges  of,  75. 

—  travelling  companies  of,  49. 

—  under  J£.,  11-12. 
Admission  to  theatre,  81. 
Agnosticism  of  E.,  318. 
Alexandrian  Pleiad,  2,  39-41. 
Allusions  to  landscape,  63. 

contemporary  events,  7-9, 

Altar  in  orchestra,  50. 

—  of  Dionysus,  51. 
Ambassadors'  seats,  81. 
Amphictyonic  council,  75. 
Anapiesma,  64. 
Apparition  of  gods,  etc.,  65. 

—  of  Dioscuri    in    E.  El.,  65  ;   of  Iris 

and  Frenzy  in  H.  Fur.,  233  ;  of 
Medea,  65  ;  of  Pallas  in  H.  Fur., 
233  n. 

Architecton,  82. 

Architectural  remains,  evidence  of,  in 
stage  controversy,  57-8. 

Archon  and  dramatic  judges,  12. 

—  Basileus,  60. 

—  Eponymus,  60. 
Archonship  of  Menon,  87. 
Archons'  seats,  81. 

Areopagite    Court    in   Eumenides,   70, 

112  ff.,  317. 

Argives  in  M.  Agam.,  79;  Suppl.,  84; 
in  E.  El.,  252  ff. ;  Or.,  269  ff. 

—  in  E.   Phaen.,  264  ff. ;  in  S.    Antig., 

137  ff. 

Argo  the  ship,  in  E.  Hypsip.,  305. 
Argument     of    E.    Hippol.,     215    n. ; 

Medea,  22  n. ;  of  M.  Persa,  8  n. 

—  against  a  stage,  56  ff.  ;  for  a  stage, 

53  ff- 

—  of  plays,  whence  taken,  62. 


Arrangement  of  JE.  Agam.,  99  n. ; 
Choeph.,  106  n.  ;  Bum.,  in  n. ; 
Pers.,  86  n. ;  P.  V.,  92;  Sepiem, 
89  n. ;  Suppl.,  84  n. 

—  of  E.,  Ale.,  186  n. ;  Bac.,  277  n.  ; 

£ycl.,  289  n.  ;  El.,  252  n.  ;  Hel., 
258  n. ;  Heracleida,  200  n.  ;  H. 
Fur.,  228  n. ;  Hippol.,  205  n.  ; 
Ion,  236  n.  ;  /.  A.,  285  n. ;  /.  T., 
247  n. ;  Or.,  268  n. ;  Phcen.,  264 
n.  ;  Rhes.,  291  n. ;  Suppl.,  234  n. ; 
Troad.,  243  n. 

—  of  S.  Aj.,  132  n.  ;  Ant.,  136  n. ;  El., 

141  n.  ;  (E.  C.,  167  n.  ;  (E.  T., 
145  n. ;  Philoct.,  161  n.  ;  Track., 
154  n. 

Artists  of  Dionysus,  75. 

?  Ascent  from  orchestra  to  stage,  55. 

Assyrian  sculpture,  126. 

At£,  129,  198. 

Athenian  art,  182-3. 

—  cynicism,  325. 

—  ecclesia,  270. 

—  empire,  14,  128  n.,  325. 
Atridean  house,  127,  129. 
Attic  festivals,  49. 

—  hero  Triptolemus,  6. 

—  spirit  of  S.,  182. 

—  townships,  49. 
Audience,  80. 
Audiences,  size  of,  50. 
Auditorium,  51. 
Authorship  of  Rhesus,  293-5. 

BACCHANTE,    237 ;   Bacchantes  in   JE. 

Bassarids,  117. 
Basileus,  Archon,  60. 
Beacon-speech  in  ^E.  Agam.,  124. 
Beauty  and  Truth  in  E.,  326. 
Belletrist,  Ion  a,  24. 
Benefactors'  seats,  81. 
Bent  staff  of  actors,  16. 
Bible  and  S.  <E.  Col.,  172  and  n. 
Board-game  in  M.  Suppl.,  123 ;  in  E. 

Medea,  208. 


388 


V.  GENERAL 


389 


Board  of  generals,  12. 

Boeotians,  234  n. 

"  Bowl  of  the  Sun,"  in  JE.  and  Mimner- 

mus,  1 19. 
Bronteion,  64. 

Buildings  of  Greek  theatre,  50  ff. 
Burial-passages  in  Moschion,  38. 
Burlesque,  E.  Helena  a,  262  ff. 
Buskin,  69. 
Butler  in  E.  Ale.,  73. 
Byzantine   appreciation   and   selection 

of  E.,  21,  215-6,  265,  268. 

CATHARSIS,  43. 

Cenotaph  of  E.,  in  Attica,  18. 

Centaurs:  Chiron,  98;  Nessus,  154. 

Ceraunoscopeion,  64. 

Cercis,  -ides,  80-1. 

Change  of  dress,  73. 

scene  in  JE.  Eutn.,  and  S.  Aj., 

63- 
Character    in    Tragedy,   according    to 

Aristotle,  44. 
Charges  in  theatre,  81-2. 
Charioteer  in  Rhesus,  291-2. 
Chariots  on  stage,  64. 
Charon's  steps,  64. 
Chian  wine,  24. 
Choregus,  7,  60,  68,  82. 
Choreutae  or  choristers,  16,  75  ff. 
Chorus,  4,  75-80. 

—  and  chorus-leader,  i. 
Chorus-dancing,  78-80. 
entrances,  56. 

—  in  satyric  drama,  80. 
JE.,  E.,  and  S.,  76-7. 

E.,   Ale.,  79;   Or.,  79;    S.    (E. 

Tyr.,  79;  Philoct.,  166. 

—  of  Argive  elders  in  JB.  Ag.,  79,  99. 

. women  in  E.  El.,  252  ff. 

Or.,  79,  269. 

Athenians  in  S.  (E.  Col.,  169. 

attendants  of  Creusa  in  E.  Ion, 

236  ff. 
•  —  —  women  in  E.  Phaethon,  302, 

Calchian  women  in  E.  Iph.  A., 

285  ff. 

captive  Greek    maidens    in    E. 

Helena,  259. 
Iph.  T.,  247  ff. 

—  —  Corinthian  women  in  E.  Medea, 

192  ff. 

Danaids  in  JE.  Suppl.,  76,  84. 

Furies  in  JE.  Eumen.,  76-7,  in. 

Greek    sailors    in    S.     Philoct., 

166. 
Lemnians  in  M.  and  E.  Philoct., 

166,  296. 
Libation-bearers  in  JE.  Choeph., 

79,  106,  126. 


Chorus  of  Mothers  ot  the  Seven,  in 
E.  Suppl.,  234  ff. 

Nemean  women  in  E.  Hypsip., 

304- 

Old  Athenians,  in  E.  Erech., 

297  ;  Heracleid.,  200. 

Pheraeans  in  E.  Ale.,  79, 

186. 

Phoenician  maidens  in  E.  Phcen., 

264  ff. 

Phrynichus'  Phcen.,  g. 

Phrygian  Bacchantes  in  E.  Bac., 

277  ff. 

Phrygians  in  fa.  Hector's  Ran- 
som, 119. 

Phthian  women  in  E.  Andro- 
mache, 220. 

Salaminian  sailors  in  S.  Ajax, 

132. 

Satyrs  in  S.  Ichn.,  175,  and  E. 

Cycl.,  289  ff. 

Sea-Nymphs  in  JE.  Prom.  V., 

94- 

Sentinels  in  Rhesus,  291  ff. 

Thebans  in  E.  H.  Pur.,  228  ff. 

S.  Antier.,  137. 

(E.  Tyr.,  148. 

Trcezenian  women  in  E.  Hippol., 

205  ff. 

Trojan  women  in  E.  Troades, 

243  ff. 

—  place  of,  in  theatre,  50. 

—  under  JE.,  11-12. 
Chorus-leader,  60. 
trainer,  70. 

Chromatic  style  of  Agathon,  26. 
Chthonian  religion  in  JE.,  130. 
City  Dionysia,  13,  49,  60. 
Classicism  and  Romance,  320. 
Comedy,  23. 

—  origin  of,  in. 
Commos,  74. 

—  Aristotle's  definition  of,  47. 

—  in  JE.  Choeph.,  109  and  n. 
Complication,  Ar.'s  definition  of,  47. 
Conception  of  God  in  Critias,  30. 
Confederacy,  Delian,  13. 
Conscience  in  JE.,  130. 
Contents,  p.  vii. 

Coon-songs,  80. 
Corinthians,  16,  192  ff. 
Coryphaeus,  78-9. 

—  in  (E.  Tyr.,  146. 
Cothurnus,  69. 
CrSpis,  68. 

Criticism,  Verrall's,  etc.,  p.  v. 
Crown  of  ivy,  61. 
Curetes,  in  E.  Cretans,  310. 
Curtain,  none  in  classical  age,  64. 


390 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


DANCING-GROUND,  50. 

Dancing  of  chorus,  78-80. 

Date  of  Hecuba,  215  n. 

Dea  ex  machina,  in  E.  Ion,  240;  Mela- 

nippe,  306.     See  also  Deus. 
Death  on  stage,  according  to  Aristotle, 

45 ;  of  Alcestis  and  Hippolytus,  46. 
Defects  in  S.  Ajax,  135-6. 
Delian  confederacy,  13. 

—  festival,  215  and  n. 
Delirium  of  Orestes,  on  stage,  70. 
Delphic  oracle,  in  E.  Ereck.,  297 ;  Ion, 

237  ff. ;  7.  T.,  247  ff. ;  Teleph.,  295-6. 
Demos,  325. 
Denouement,  Aristotle's   definition  of, 

47- 

Destiny  in  E.,  318. 
Deus  ex  machina,  ace.  to  Aristotle,  46  ; 

in  S.  Philoct.,  163  ff..  312  ff.,  315; 

in  E.  Androma.,  312  ff.  ;  Bac.,  Hel., 

Hipp.,  Ion,    Iph.  A.,  Melan.  W., 

Rhes.,   Suppl.,  ibid.,   Medea,    46, 

195-6. 

Deuteragonist,  72. 
Dialogue,  4,  n. 
Difficulties    in    plot    of    Andromache, 

221  ff. 
Dionysia,  City  or  Great,  13,  49,  60,  80. 

—  Rural,  49. 

—  203. 

—  in  Alexander's  Camp,  39. 
Dionysiac  festivals,  80. 
at  Alexandria,  39. 

—  legends,  2. 

—  worship,  68. 
Distegia,  64-5. 
Dithyrambic  chorus,  82. 
Dithyrambs,  i,  3,  23-4,  49. 

—  prize  a  tripod  in,  62. 
"  Do  and  suffer,"  no. 

Doge  in  Sh.  Merchant  of  Venice,  72-3. 

Doors  in  theatre,  52. 

Dorian  mode,  72. 

Dorians  and  tragedy,  3. 

Doric  in  lyrics,  3  and  n. 

Drama  before  M.,  4  ff. 

Dramatic  art  of  M.,  125  ff. 

—  criticism,  Verrall's,  p.  v. 

—  form,  p.  vi. 

—  irony  in  S.,  179-80. 

—  performance,  a  State  function,  50. 

—  renaissance  in  Great  Britain,  p.  v. 

—  structure,  pp.  v,  vi,  etc. 

of  E.  Medea,  196-7. 

Dress,  effect  of,  on  acting,  70. 

—  of  actors  and  chorus,  68-70. 

satyric  chorus,  69. 

chorus  in  E.  Bac.,  68-9. 

Furies  in  fiL.  Bum.,  6g. 

Dressing-room,  52. 


ECCLESIA  of  Athens,  270. 

Eccyclema,  64,  66-8;  in  M.  Bum.,  67, 

in  n. ;  in  E.  H.  Fur.,  229. 
Editions  of  E.  Medea,  22  and  n. ,  195-6 ; 

of  Hippol.,  213-5. 

Effect  of  dress  and  masks  on  acting,  70. 

Egyptian  herald   in    M.  Suppl.,  123-4, 

and  Eg.  messenger  in  E.  Hel.,  258  ff. 

—  sculpture,  126. 

Elaphebolion,  month  (Mar.-Apr.),  49. 
Elegies  of  Ion,  23. 

Elements  of  tragedy,  ace.  to  Aristotle, 

44- 

Eleusinian  mysteries,  ro-n. 
Eleusinians  in  E.  Ereck.,  297. 
Elizabethan  dramatists,  5. 

—  stage-directions,     and     eccyclema, 

66-7. 

Embassy  to  Syracuse,  E.  on,  17. 
Encores,  83. 
Epigrams  of  Ion,  23. 
Episodes,  4  and  n.,  12. 

—  Ar.'s  definition  of,  47. 
Episodic  plot  of  Hecuba,  216. 

—  plots  of  E.,  312  ff. 
Epitaph  of  JE.,  10  n. 
Eponymus,  Archon,  60. 
Eretrian  philosophic  school,  39. 
Eruption  of  Etna,  91. 
Etymology  of  "  tragedy,"  62  n. 
Eunuch  in  Phrynichus'  Phcenissa,  7. 
Euripidean    influence    in    S.    Philoct., 

163. 
Track.,  159-60. 

—  Supplices,  65. 

—  versification  of  Sosiphanes,  41. 
Evidence   of  architectural  remains,  in 

stage  controversy,  57-8. 

extant  dramas,  in  stage  contro- 
versy, 56-7. 

tradition,   in   stage  controversy, 

57- 

Examining-boards  and  S.  Ajax,  p.  vi. 
Exodos,  78  ;  Ar.'s  definition  of,   47. 
"  Expedit  esse  deos,"  257  n. 

FATE   in   M.,  130;  in  E.,  318;   in   E. 

Troades,  246. 

"  Fates  "  in  British  Museum,  182. 
Faults  in  (E.  Tyr.,  150  ff. 
Fixed  proscenium,  58. 
Flowers,  Chaeremon's  love  of,  32-3. 
Flute-players,  6,  60,  70-2. 
Form,  dramatic,  p.  v. 
Fourth  actor,  71. 
Fragments  of  Aristophanes,  119  and  n. 

M.,  117  ff. ;  of  E.,  295  ff. ;  of  S., 

173-6. 

French  Revolution,  30. 
Frenzies  in  E.  Orestes,  275  ;  frenzy,  65. 


V.  GENERAL 


391 


Fundamental  law  in  criticism  o 
Greek  tragedy,  155. 

Furies,  67-8,  m  if.,  249 ;  and  Attica 
131 ;  grove  of,  168  ff.  ;  in  M 
Choeph.,  108 ;  Bum.,  77  n. ;  in  S 
(E.  Col.,  169;  in  E.  Iph.  T.,  247 
Orestes,  269. 

GALLERY,  51. 

—  on  Elizabethan  stage,  65. 
Gamelion,  month  (Jan. -Feb.),  49. 
Gangways,  51. 

General  appreciation  of  M.,  120  ff. ;  o: 

S.,  177  ff. ;  of  E.,  310  ff. 
Generals,  board  of,  13. 
Generals'  seats,  81. 
Geography,  in  Prometheus-eulogy,  and 

Daughters  of  Sun,  of  M.,  119  ;  and 

in  S.   Triptolemus,  173. 
Ghost   of  Clytaemnestra,  in  JE.  Bum., 
in  ff. 

Polydorus,  in  E.  Hec.,  215  ff. 

Ghosts  in  theatre,  55,  64. 

Goat  as  tragic  prize,  62. 

"Goat-song,"  62  n. 

"God"  in  £.,283  f. 

Golden  Fleece  in  E.  Medea,  192  ff. 

Hypsip.,  305. 

—  Lamb,  257. 

Gorgon,  in  E.  Andromeda,  240. 
Graces  and  Muses  in  E.,  326. 
"Gracious  Ones,"  113  n. 
Graeco-Roman  type  of  theatre,  59  n. 
Grandeur  of  M.'s  dramatic  art,  125. 

language,  121. 

Great  Dionysia,  49,  80. 

Greek  Drama  originated  in    Dionysiac 

worship,  I. 
—  an  act  of  worship,  49. 

—  enlightenment,  325. 

—  Messenger  in  E.  Helena,  258  n. 

—  Statues,  182-3. 

Guard   in   E.   Baccha,   277   ff. ;    in    S. 
Antig.,  144. 

HADES,  95  ;  in  Pirithous,  29. 

Harpist,  S.  as,  71. 

Hellenistic  world,  20. 

Hellenotamias,  13. 

Hemicyclion,  64. 

Herald  in  JB.  Ag.,  73  ;  Suppl.,  123  ;  of 

Thebes,  in  E.  Suppl.,  234  ff. 
Herdsman  in  Rhesus,  291  n.  and  ff. 
"  Hero  "  in  Greek  sense,  136. 
High  stage,  53-4. 
Hissing  a  play,  83. 
Homeric  question,  52. 
Hoplite,  M.  as,  10. 
Horses  on  stage,  64. 
Huntsmen  in  E.  Hippol.,  71. 


Hymns  of  Ion,  23. 
Hypnotism  in  E.  Bacchce,  282. 
Hyporchema,  6,  78. 

Hypothesis   of    E.   Cycl.,  290    n. ;   of 
Suppl.,  235  n. 

ICRIA,  8l. 

Improvisation,  5. 
Innovations  of  Agathon,  26  f. 
Interpolations  in  E.  Phcenissa,  265  ff. 
Invocation  of  Agamemnon's  shade,  in 

.«.  Choeph.,  74. 
Ionian  revolt,  7. 
Irony,  S.'s  dramatic,  179-80. 
Isthmian  games,  23. 
Ivy  crown  of  poet  and  choregus,  61. 
—  sacred  to  Dionysus,  61-2. 

JAPANESE  theatre,  68. 
Judges  of  dramas,  12-13,  61. 
Judges'  seats  in  theatre,  81. 

LACEDEMONIAN  society   in   E.   Andro- 
mache, 224. 

Landscape,  allusions  to,  in  drama,  63. 

Language  of  Homer,  123. 

Later  Greek  view  of  E.,  323. 

Lead,  theatre-ticket  of,  82. 

Lemnian  chorus  in  JE.  and  E.  Philoc- 
tetes,  166. 

Lensea,  34,  49,  60. 

Lessee  of  theatre,  82. 

Library  of  Alexandria,  39. 
—  Euripides,  17. 

Libretto,  72,  312. 

Lightning  on  stage,  64. 

"  Literature  of  escape,"  184. 

"  Liturgy"  or  public  service,  60. 

Logeion,  53,  57,  64. 

Low  stage,  54. 

Ludovisi  Hera,  182. 

Lycians  in  Rhesus,  291  ff. 

Lycurgean  theatre,  58. 

Lydian  mode,  72. 

MACHINERY,  on  stage,  64-5. 

"  Madonna  of  the   Grand   Duke,"  by 

Raffaelle,  102. 
"  Marathon,  men  of,"  325. 
Masks,     5,     58,     68-9 ;     invented     by 

Choerilus  ?  6 ;  effect  on  acting,  70. 
'  Melian    dialogue "     in     Thucydides, 

167  n. 

Melodrama,  307. 
'  Men  of  Marathon,"  325. 
Messenger  or  messengers :  in  E.  Bacch., 

277  ff. ;   El.,    252-3;    Helena,  258 

ff. ;  Iph.  A.,  285  f. ;  Phcen.,  264-5 ; 

Suppl.,  234  n. ;  in  S.  (E.  Col.,  185. 
Metaphors,  123,  etc. 


892 


GREEK  TRAGEDV 


Minor  parts  well  played,  73. 

Mixed,  or  "  mixo-,"  Lydian  mode,  19, 

72. 
Model  tragedy,  in  Ar.  Poetic,  the  CE. 

Tyr.,  148. 

Modes  in  music,  72. 
Monastic  spirit  in  Hellas,  310. 
Monody,  74. 

Mounting  of  plays,  60,  62  ff. 
Muse  in  Rhesus,  291  n.  and  ff. ;  Muses 

in  M.  Bassar.,  117 ;  in  E.  H.  Fur., 

229. 

Music,  26,  71-2;  and  Pratinas,  6. 
Music-hall,  or  Odeum,  56. 
Mutes,  70-1. 
Mysteries  of  Eleusis,  10-11, 

NAIAD-LYRIC  in  E.  Hel.,  261. 
Natural  science  in  E.,  319. 
Nemean  games,  304. 

—  women  in  E.  Hypsip.,  304. 
New  comedy,  19,  336. 
Nightingale-lyric  in  E.  Hel.,   261 ;    in 

Rhes.,  292-3. 
No  word  for  stage  in  older  literature, 

57- 

Number  of  actors,  5,  11-12,  15-16,  73. 
Nurse  in  JE.  Choeph.,  124  ;  E.  Hippol., 

205  ff. ;  in  S.  Track.,  158  n. ;    in 

Sh.  Romeo  and  J.,  124. 
Nymph    Cyllene,    in    S.    Ichn.,    176; 

Echo,  in  S.  Philoct.,  166. 

OBJECTIONS  of  A.  and  Ar.  to  E.,  312  ff. 

Obol,  81. 

Obscenity  in  ritual,  81. 

Oceanids  in  M.  P.  V.,  76,  124. 

Ochlocracy,  30. 

Odes  in  Tragedy,  77. 

Odeum,  or  Music-hall,  56. 

Old  Comedy,  81. 

—  man,  in  E.  Iph.  A.,  285  ff. 

—  woman,  in  E.  Helena,  258  ff. 
Olympian    Gods,  and   M.    130  ;  in    S. 

El,,  142;  in  E.  Hippol.,  209;  Ion, 
238  ff. ;  Iph.  T.,  249  J  Or.,  276 ; 
Troad.,  246. 

Oncus,  69. 

Optical  relations  of  stage  and  audi- 
torium, 58. 

Oracle  of  Delphi ;  in  Ion,  237  ;  and  see 
DELPHIC  ORACLE. 

Orchestra,  50,  57-8,  64. 

Order  in  theatre,  82. 

Origin  of  comedy,  i  and  n. ;  of  tragedy, 
iff. 

Oxyrhynchus  papyri,  18  and  n.,  175  ff., 
304  and  n.,  etc.  [vi.,  19-106;  ix. 
124-82]. 


PJEAN  on  Salamis,  12 ;  Paeans,  23. 

Paadagogi,  brought  on  stage  by  Neo- 
phron, 21. 

Paedagogus,  in  S.  EL,  141  ff.  ;  E.  Ion, 
236  ff. ;  Med.,  192;  Phan.,  264  ff. 

Papyri,  see  Oxyrhynchus. 

Parachoregema,  71. 

Parallel  of  sculpture  and  jE.'s  art,  125-6. 

Parascenia,  53-4,  71. 

Parian  marble,  the,  17. 

Parodos,  -oi,  77,  81 ;  Ar.'s  definition  of, 

47- 
Parody :  of  Agathon,  in  A.  Thesmoph., 

27-8 ;     of  E.    Andromeda,   in    A. 

Thesm.,    298 ;     Belleroph.,   in   A. 

Peace,  297 ;  of  Tel.  in  A.  Acharn. 

and  Thesm.,  296 ;  of  Helena  in  A. 

Thesm.,  262. 
Parts  of  a  theatre,  50  ff. 
Passage-ways,  51. 
Peace-lyric,  in  E.  Cresph.,  308-9. 
Peasant  in  E.  Electra,  252  ff. 
"Pegs,"  51. 
Pelasgians,  272. 
Pelopid    curse,   in    AL.    Agam.,    106; 

family,  258. 
Peloponnesian   war,   163,  200,   201  n., 

219  n.,  325. 

Performers  and  their  work,  70  ff. 
Periacti,  63,  65. 
Peripeteia,  definition  and  examples  of, 

given   by  Aristotle,   37,  47-8 ;    in 

Agathon,  27  ;    in  E.,  18-19 !    m  S. 

Antig.,  140;  in  Philoct.,  163. 
Persian  counsellors,  7,  356 ;  invasions, 

10. 

Phallic  songs,  i  n. 
Pheraean    elders'    chorus,   in    E.  Ale., 

186. 

Philosophy  in  E.,  319. 
"  Phoebus,"     watchword     in    Rhesus, 

291  ff. 
Phoenician  women,  chorus  of  in  E.  and 

Phry.  Phcen.,  9,  264. 
Phrygian  in  E.  Orestes,  268  ff. 

—  mode,  16,  72. 

—  slave,  his  solo,  in  E.  Or.,  72. 
Phrygians,  224. 

Phrynichean  treatment  of  theme,  108. 

Picturesqueness  of  M.'s  dramatic 
structure,  127-8 ;  of  his  charac- 
terization, 124 ;  language,  123-4. 

Plan  of  theatre  (illustration),  51. 

Platform,  56. 

Plays  with  two  actors  only,  12  and  n. 

"  Pleiad  "  at  Alexandria,  39. 

Pleiads  in  E.  Phaethon,  302. 

Plot  in  Tragedy,  ace.  to  Aristotle,  vi, 
44 ;  of  Agam.,  Verrall's  theory, 

100  ff. 


V.  GENERAL 


393 


Politics,  JE.'s  interest  in,  128  and  n. ; 

in  E.,  319. 
Pommery,  74  n. 
Popularity  of  E.  Phcen.,  265. 
Poseideon,  month  (Dec.-Jan.),  49. 
Priest  of  Dionysus,  80. 
Privileges  of  actors,  75. 
Prize  for  acting,  61,  75. 
Probability  in  Agalhon,  27. 
Proedria,  81. 
Producers  of  plays,  60. 
Production  of  plays,  49  ff. 
Prologos,  Ar.'s  definition  of,  19,  47. 
Prologue  in  E.,  19  and  n. 
—  of  Phrynichus'  Phcenissce,  7. 
Pronunciation   in    Greek  and   English 

theatres,  74. 
Propagandist  plays  of  Diogenes   and 

Crates,  37. 
Properties,  64. 
Property-rooms,  52. 
Prophetess  in  E.  Ion,  236  ff. 
Prophets  of  Israel  and  JE.,  121. 
Propompi  in  IE.  Bum.,  71. 
Proscenium,  53,  58. 
Prose-drama  of  E.,  323. 
Protagonist,  60-1,  72  ff. 
Psychological  drama  of  E.,  318. 
Pulpitum,  56. 
Puritans,  30. 

Purpose  and  scope  of  the  book,  p.  v. 
Pythian  priestess,  in  JE.  Bum.,  in  ;  in 

E.  Ion,  237. 

Quo  Vadis  ?  legend,  165. 

RATIONALISM  in  Critias'  Sisyphus,  30 ; 

in  E.,  315,  etc. 
Realism  in  E.,  321. 
Recitative,  74. 
Recognition      in      tragedy,     ace.     to 

Aristotle,  45  ;  in  JE.  Choeph.,  258  ; 

in  Arnold's  Merope,  308-9 ;  in  E. 

Cresph.,  ib.;  Hel.,  260;  Hypsip., 

305  ;  Ion,  237  ff. ;  Iph.  T.,  31,  45, 

73,   248;  in  Polyidus'  Iph.,  31;  in 

S.  El.,  142,  144  ;  Tereus,  174  n. 
Recoil  in   drama,    Ar.'s   definition  of, 

45,  47-8  ;  in  S.  Antig.,  140. 
Religion  in  E.,  319,  etc. ;  in  S.,  177;  in 

JE.  Bum.,  114  ;  of  IE.,  128. 
Remains  of  theatre  buildings  at  Athens 

52. 
Renaissance  in  Great  Britain,  Dramatic, 

p.  v. 

Reticence  of  Athenian  art,  183. 
Reversal  of  action  in  tragedy,  ace.  to 

Aristotle,  45,  47-8. 
Rhapsody  of  Chseremon,  32. 
"  Rod-bearers,"  82. 

25* 


Roman  theatres,  52. 
Romance  and  classicism,  320. 

—  in  E.,  320-1. 
Rural  Dionysia,  49. 

SACK  of  Melos,  244. 

Sacrificial  Table,  i,  4. 

Salaminian    sailors,   chorus  of,   in   S. 

Ajax,  132. 
Salamis,  victory  of,  7,  12,  14,  38. 

Salome  "  dances,  78. 
Salon  of  Sophocles,  14. 
Satyric  chorus,  80. 

—  drama,  i,  2,  6,  17,  23,  25,  61,  81  n., 

*75-6>  J92,  289  ff->  etc. 
Satyrs,  i ;  chorus  of,  in  Cycl.,  289  ff. 
Scsenici,  53. 
Scene,  52,  59. 

Scene-painting,  4,  15,  16,  62. 
Scenery,  62  ff. 
Scholia :  on  JE.  Choeph.  [900],  73  n. ; 

Pers.,  87 ;  Prom.  V.  [128],  57  ;  on 

Aristoph.,  22  n. ;  Frogs  [303],  74  n. ; 

Frogs  [53],  304  n.  ;  Wasps  [1342], 

57  ;  on   Eurip.,  21 ;   Phan.,   265  ; 

Rhes.  [528],  294  and  n. 
Scolia,  23. 
Sculpture  of  Assyria,  Egypt,   Greece, 

Praxiteles,  125-6. 
Sea-Nymphs,  in  JE.  P.  V.,  94. 
Seating    accommodation    in    theatre, 

Athens,  50  and  n. 
Seats  in  theatre,  80  ff. 
Selection  of  dramatic  judges,  61. 
Semi-choruses,  78. 

Sentinels,  chorus  of,  in  Rhesus,  291  ff. 
Servant,  in  E.  Ion,  236  ff. 
Seven  against  Thebes,   in   E.  Suppl., 

234  ff. 

Shepherd,  in  E.  El.,  253. 
Shrine  of  Thetis,  in  E.  Androma.,  219  ff. 
Sicilian  expedition,  244,  252  n.    ' 
Side-wings,  51,  54. 
Sikinnis  dance,  80. 

Simplicity  of   Athenian   art,   183 ;    of 
JE.'s  dramatic  structure,  126. 

JE.'s  language,  122. 

Sin,  as  material  defilement,  in  IE.,  130  n. 

—  in  Euripides,  318  ff. 
Slave  in  Iph.  A.,  322. 

Socratic  novices  in  A.  Clouds,  68. 

Solo  by  Phrygian  slave  in  E.  Or.,  72. 

Songs  of  Phrynichus,  8. 

Sophistry  in  E.,  317. 

("  Spartam  nactus  es,  hanc  exorna"), 

295- 

Spartans,  201  n.,  204. 
"  Speaking-place,"  53  ;  "  for  gods,"  65. 
Sphinx,  265,  267-8  n.;  in  S.  (E.  2>r., 


894 


GREEK  TRAGEDY 


Stage,  52  ff. 
Stage-buildings,  50  ff. 

—  -direction  in  S.  Ichn,,  175  n. 

—  -machinery,  64  ff. 

—  -properties,  64 

—  used  after  300  B.C.,  53. 

Stasima,  77  ;  -on,  Ar.'s  definition  of,  47. 
Statues  in  Greek  plays,  62. 

—  of  playwrights,  31. 
Stewards  in  theatre,  82. 
Stropheion,  64. 

Structure,  dramatic,  v,  vi,  etc. 

"  Study-plays "      of     Diogenes      and 

Crates,  37. 
Sun-god,  in  E.  Medea,  195 ;  Phaethon, 

3°i-3- 

Supervision  of  dramatic  displays,  60  ff. 
Suttee,  in  E.  Suppl.,  235. 

TABLE  in  orchestra,  50. 
Table,  sacrificial,  i,  4. 
Tableaux  in  Greek  theatre,  66. 
Taurians  in  E.  I  ph.  T.,  247  ff. 
Technical  changes  made  by  IE.,    n  ; 

by  S.,  15-6. 

Temple  of  Athena,  in  Eunien.,  63. 
Tent,  52  (of  Agamemnon). 
Tetralogy,  15,  17,  24,  50,  61,  87. 
Theatre,  80  ff. 

—  at  Athens,  remains  of,  59  n. 

—  buildings,  50  ff. 

—  Graeco-Roman  type,  in  Asia  Minor, 

59  n. 

—  its  parts  and  construction,  50  ff. 

—  not  roofed,  50. 

—  of  Dionysus,  Athens,  49,  56. 
Lycurgus,  57. 

—  ticket,  82. 

Thebans,  chorus  of,  in  E.  H.  Fur.,  228 

ff. 

Theologeion,  64-5. 
Theoric  fund,  82. 

Thesalian,  in  E.  Andromache,  226-7. 
Thesmophoria,  festival,  262. 
Third  actor,  16. 
Thirty  tyrants,  29-30. 
Thought  in  tragedy,  ace.  to  Aristotle, 

44- 

Thracian  Edoni,  117. 

Thracians  in  E.  Erech.,  297  ;  Rhes., 
291  ff. 

"  Three  Unities,"  42  n. 

Thunder-machine,  64. 

Thymele,  57 ;  -melici,  53. 

Times  of  dramatic  performances,  50. 

"  To  give  a  chorus,"  60. 

Tomb  of  Achilles,  in  Hec.,  216;  of 
Agamemnon,  in  IE.  Choeph.,  106 ; 
in  E.  El.,  253  ;  of  Clytaemnestra, 
in  E.  Or.,  269 ;  of  Proteus,  in  E. 


Hel.,  259  ;  importance  of  tombs 
ace.  to  Prof.  Ridgeway,  3,  64  and  n. 

"  To  receive  a  chorus,"  60. 

Torturing  of  slaves,  in  drama,  21. 

Tradition,  evidence  of,  in  stage  contro- 
versy, 57. 

Tragedy,  origin  of,  i  ff. 

Tragic  contest,  begun  by  Pisistratus, 
50. 

—  diction,  created  by  JE.,  122. 

—  incident  in  tragedy,  ace.  to  Aristotle, 

45- 

Tragicomedy  in  E.,  19. 
Trainers  of  actors  and  choruses,  60. 
Travelling  companies  of  actors,  49. 
Treasury  Board,  13. 
Trilogy,  16. 

Tripod,  prize  for  dithyramb,  62. 
Tritagonist,  72. 
Troezenian  women,   chorus   of,   in   E. 

Hippol.,  205  ff. 
Trojans,  in  E.   Philoct.,  297;   Rhesus, 

291  ff. 

—  women,  chorus  of,   in  E.  Troades, 

243  rT. 
Two  actors  only,  in  certain  plays,  12 

and  n. 
Tyrants,  thirty,  29. 

UNITIES,  three,  42  n. 

Unity  of  Place,  42  n.  ;  violated  in  M. 

Bum.,  and  in  S.  Aj.,  42  n. 
Unravelling  in  drama,  Ar.'s  definition 

of,  47. 

VASE-PAINTINGS,  41. 
Verse-translations  of  Professor  Murray, 

v,  185,  211,  214,  280. 
Versions  of  E.  Medea,  22  and  n.,  195-6 ; 

of  Hippol.,  213-5. 
Vitruvian  stage,  53  ff. 
Vote  of  Athena,  in  IE..  Eumen.,  112 

and  n. 

WAGGON  of  Thespis,  5,  50. 
Was  there  a  stage  in  the  Greek  theatre  ? 
52  ff. 

ever  a  fourth  actor  ?  71. 

Watchmen  in  JE.  Agam.,  64,  124. 
What  does  Aristotle  think  of  Peripeteia  ? 

48. 

White  shoes  of  actors,  16. 
Wine-lees,    faces    of    Thespis'    actors 

smeared  with,  5,  68. 
"  Wine-Press  Festival,"  49,  see  Lenaea. 
Wit  in  E.  Orestes,  323  ;  in  E.  generally, 

3**-3- 

Wooden  horse,  243. 
Wrestling  in    Phrynichus'    Antaus,   7 

and  n. 


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